


The Webs We Weave

by MajixTrixx, NerdGirl927



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clever!John, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant!JIm, First Dates, First Time, Grayish!John, Impact Play, M/M, They Started with the Riding crop, bisexual!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajixTrixx/pseuds/MajixTrixx, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdGirl927/pseuds/NerdGirl927
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted to taste it; to lap at the darkness within Jim Moriarty's hollowed out soul and no matter how much the doctor tried to convince himself that it was wrong, he couldn't dispel the tiny voice in the back of his mind that caressed his thoughts with the whispered fantasies of a much darker man. Johniarty! Slash! THoB compliant!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Webs We Weave

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!  
> Wow, I'm finally putting out a piece of work for this fandom! I honestly can't believe it. I really thought that my first dabble with this Universe would be a Johnlock for sure. Looks like I was wrong haha I don't mind though. This is definitely one of my most favorite Sherlock pairings and I couldn't resist.  
> This was a muse inspired idea that just refused to go away and i couldn't have done it without NerdGirl927. She was, not only, a huge inspiration to the work, but she was a co-author to some parts and an excellent supporter that helped me during the entire journey. I honestly don't think that I'd have been able to get as far with this as I did without her continued assistance and the positive fedback that she provided. So, this story is definitely dedicated to her.  
> I would also like to thank NVCiel for inadvertantly helping me Hahaha. NV, you're a constant inspiration to me and you honestly make me want to keep writing. So, thanks.  
> I suppose I should probably add on the disclaimer. I don't own any of the characters from this piece. I don't make any money from this, all profits go to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> Hope you all enjoy,  
> Ta,  
> Majix

There was a reason John Watson didn't date men and despite popular belief, It had very little to do with sexuality.

It had nothing to do with his drunken homophobic father or his time in the army, nothing to do with Harry or repression and had everything to do with the fact that he was attracted to men brimming with certain type of darkness. He was attracted to blood and sweat, adrenaline and danger, to unquestionable dominance and the scent of power.

John had always been a man of two sides long before he decided to join the army as a trauma surgeon. Only later was he able to file the two sides of himself under neat little labels that didn't need to be explained, at least to those that mattered.

The Doctor and the Soldier.

And while the caring, nurturing side of him had always been content with the softness of the female body, the gentle sway of feminine hips, pouty lips colored the shade of a rose petal and the comfort of a gentle touch, the same could not be said for the other half of his heart. It blazed white hot with a desire for submission, to bow at the feet of his superior, somebody above him who would guide and punish as needed. It longed for long lean bodies, sharp lines and a striking male figure.

He'd thought that he had it bad when he met Sherlock, the way those unyielding eyes delved deep into the very lives of all those around them, the way his razor sharp tongue could inflict the deepest, harshest emotional cut at a moments notice, and all that darkness swimming just below the surface, trying so desperately to get out. John thought that he'd finally met a man that'd satisfy him, his need for darkness.

Until he met Jim Moriarty.

The man at the crown of an empire, a man who had no true desire for money, who merely contented to sit back and watch the world burn from his throne. He wanted nothing because he needed nothing. Jim Moriarty was a man that had the very world at his fingertips and the addicting nature of that power was overwhelming; intoxicating in the way that no amount of adrenaline, no drug or vice could outmatch or satisfy.

And the truth of it all lied silent and waiting within the depths of those bottomless black eyes. The Irishman wasn't afraid to wear his emotions on the surface, changing at a moment's notice. His eyes were the closest that John could compare to death; ebony and waiting, unyielding in a way that Sherlock could never be.

Both an immovable object and an unstoppable force.

And the moment Jim strapped the blonde doctor into the Semtex vest, John knew that he was in trouble.

* * *

In the weeks that followed the incident at the pool, John waited for his flatmate to call him out on his odd behavior. He'd been saved from the embarrassment of trying to appear normal by Irene Adler of all people, but of course, that didn't last.

In her quest to be clever before the eyes of, not only the world's only Consulting Detective, but the British Government, she'd gone too far, resulting in her apparent "relocation". Within his own mind, John didn't even pretend to think that's what'd actually happened to her. For all he knew she was in some underground facility being tortured for information, or hiding out in the busy streets of Vienna with a new name and a different shade of lipstick. Mycroft claimed that she perished in the middle east early the previous week but after all the time spent with Sherlock Holmes, John learned never to take anything at face value.

When one walked the battlefield of this particular war, the lines between life and death became more blurred than ever.

So, in the quiet aftermath of the Woman's presence, John paced.

It was almost comical, the way his interest peaked when it'd become known that she was connected to Moriarty, that the Woman was the reason behind their fortunate escape from the pool. It was yet another reminder of a night he couldn't seem to forget, and as the days passed, John began to grow restless with his unease.

He couldn't stop thinking about the undeniable thrill that he'd felt in the presence of the world's only Consulting Criminal. He was dangerous, to both John and the world around him but, try as he may, the blonde army doctor couldn't banish the remembrance of those startling eyes on him, the way that Moriarty's sing-song voice carried across the pool's surface in a distinctive assertion of his dominance over the curly haired detective.

And his show had been nothing but that.

He cornered them, had the two at his mercy in every sense of the word and even as Sherlock sought to regain control, Moriarty side-stepped it, practically tsking in the face of the one man who'd ever dreamed of matching the Irishman's superior intellect.

It was dizzying, that small little display of power and now that he'd bared witness to it, John couldn't help but to want more. He wanted to taste it; to lap at the darkness within Jim Moriarty's hollowed out soul and no matter how much the doctor tried to convince himself that it was wrong, he couldn't dispel the tiny voice in that back of his mind that caressed his thoughts with the whispered fantasies of a darker man.

* * *

Being the child of an alcoholic left John with a unique set of skills, skills other people could never quite appreciate the way he did.

For John Watson, sneaking was just something that seemed to come naturally to him. Of course, it hadn't been so in the beginning, when he was avoiding the drunken rage of his father but as the blonde army doctor continued on through his adult life, he discovered that it was much like riding a bicycle; even if you stopped practising, the ability never really went away.

And for this, John was grateful, because the fact of the matter was that it was nearly impossible to try and get anything past the world's only Consulting Detective.

But this, this was what John was made for and as he slipped down the stairway, silent as the grave, the doctor couldn't suppress the shiver of delight at his actions. The blonde was doubtful that Sherlock would hear him through the spray of the shower, but there was really no telling when it came to the perceptive genius and the threat of being caught doing something so utterly foolish was thrilling in a way that very little else measured up to.

As always, the flat was an utter disaster, cluttered with random objects in the most unlikely places. It reminded John vaguely of what he imagined a hurricane aftermath would look like and, if the man was honest with himself, he supposed that's what Sherlock was; a merciless force of nature trapped behind the fragility of human flesh. But unlike most days, the army doctor wasn't bothered by the contained disaster. In the end, it would aid his quest.

With minimal effort, John found the detective's phone, his fingers ghosting across the screen for the information he sought, a slight snicker lingering against his lips at the knowledge that the arrogant genius hadn't thought to keep his phone password protected. Of course, with a brother like Mycroft, John probably wouldn't have bothered anyway.

Seconds ticked by and though the blonde found himself becoming frustrated, he kept calm. With as blunt as Sherlock was, he almost expected to find Moriarty's number in the detective's contacts under "Jim" or "Arch-Nemesis" or something altogether more ridiculous but, to his surprise, it wasn't there. There wasn't a single thing that hinted at Sherlock having Moriarty's mobile number but the idea that the detective wouldn't be in possession of a way to contact Moriarty was laughable. If one truly knew the lanky genius, the idea was more unbelievable than him having the criminal's number to begin with.

Minutes were growing longer and John knew without a doubt that he was almost out of time. Sherlock would be out of the shower any minute now and he couldn't afford to be caught snooping through the brunette's phone but just as he was about to give up for the time being, a single folder caught John's eye. There, looking completely ordinary, was a contact simply labeled "IT". Of course, it could be mere coincidence that it was there, completely blank aside from an unfamiliar number but the more John thought about it, the greater his hunch became.

If that number didn't belong to James Moriarty, he would let Sherlock soak every single one of his favorite jumpers in hydrochloric acid.

With the ease borne of countless hours of practice, John memorized the unassuming number before replacing Sherlock's mobile on the edge of the kitchen table. That wouldn't do of course, since Sherlock was like a bloodhound with a scent anytime an item was placed in what seemed to be the exact same position it was in before.

That was the problem with Sherlock, that he needed everything to be clever, but the truth was that all one needed to derail the detective was a well placed moment of what appeared to be human stupidity.

Or, in this case, clumsiness.

With a well timed hip bump to the table's edge and a loud (and convincing) string of swears, John watched Sherlock's mobile, along with a series of other things, fall off the edge and onto the floor. It brought a pleased smirk to John's lips, knowing that the "accident" was sure to irk the detective while not being detrimental enough to send Sherlock into a full out sulk.

Just as predicted, Sherlock practically flew out of the bathroom at the first sound of chaos, his eyes narrowed sharply as he caught sight of the blonde doctor keeled down, picking up the things that'd fallen.

"I suppose the mediocre brain power it takes to navigate the simple layout of our flat is lost on you, John."

The detective crossed his arms, somehow managing to keep his towel securely in place around his hips, "I won't bother trying to explain all the ways you've ruined my experiment as you probably wouldn't be able to comprehend it anyway but if you could possibly find it in that ridiculously small brain of yours to pay more attention to your surroundings, humanity as a whole would be eternally grateful." Sherlock hissed angrily before spinning in a dramatic fashion to stomp down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door with an air of irritated finality.

On a scale of Sherlock's more scathing comments, that one was a fairly minor in comparison, especially since they hadn't had a case in a while. Such would've normally left John decently grumpy, opting to stay up in his room lest the detective decide to come take his anger out on the doctor further. Not that a simple door and a set of stairs would detour Sherlock if he really was determined, but it dissuaded him well enough most days.

However, in this instant, John found it to be a conveniently placed reason for escape.

With a victorious smile at the well executed plan John grabbed his coat from the hook, stuffing his keys into his jacket pocket before stomping down the stairs as if he were in a huff, only to practically skip down Baker Street as he slammed 221B's door behind him.

* * *

Usually, after a particularly nasty confrontation with Sherlock, John walked aimlessly around London, cursing his flatmate out in his thoughts until the blonde started feeling guilty about some of the horrible occurrences he wished upon the antisocial genius towards the beginning of his walk. That was, often times, when John deemed it safe enough to return without running the risk of strangling the detective in his sleep.

However, on this particular outing, John wasn't just looking to work off a little steam. For once, he actually had a set destination in mind, but getting there would be the trickiest part of his plan. No doubt that Mycroft had his people keeping tabs on John at all times, especially after his fights with Sherlock but the ex-soldier was not to be detoured from his goal so easily. And of course it was tedious, walking along seemingly random streets, leading himself closer and closer to more densely populated areas of London while trying not to make his intentions obvious.

After a good amount of time passed, John finally felt comfortable enough enter the random pub he'd chosen for the occasion, confident that Mycroft's eyes were temporarily off his person. Most times he was content to sit at the bar, having a pint or two before finally walking back to Baker Street but this particular evening wasn't like the rest.

Under the guise of needing the loo, John slipped quietly into the bathroom, pretending to fiddle with his appearance as various men came and went before finally seeing one in a jacket that looked about his size.

"That's a really nice jacket, mate. Not to be rude or anything, but would you consider parting with it for fifty quid?"

John held up the fifty pound note to show he was genuine, watching as the man raised his eyebrows in complete surprise. It was obvious that the jacket wasn't worth nearly that much, but the dark haired male slid out of it with a shrug, handing it over in exchange for the money.

John grinned, sliding it on with ease, nodding his head to the man as he turned to leave, "Cheers, Mate."

He definitely wasn't on par with Sherlock's ability to disguise himself at a moment's notice but John felt confident in his choice, especially when he pulled a cap from the inner folds of his jacket and settled it securely on the top of his head. It wasn't a look the doctor found particularly appealing for himself, but it would get the job done. He should be able to walk from the pub unseen by Mycroft's many digital eyes within the area.

With a final grin of victory, John pushed himself away from the sink and made his way from the bathroom, exiting the pub in search of a place where he could buy a disposable mobile.

* * *

The new phone felt like dead weight in his pocket as John made his way up the stairs of 221B to his flat. It was well hidden within his coat, and he'd made sure there wasn't any sort of outline that Sherlock would notice or any other dead giveaways for the detective to point out.

In fact, his journey back home had been one of near paranoia.

After buying the phone, John took a completely different route back to the pub where he'd started, disregarding both the jacket and the cap before sitting down to a celebratory pint. He could've left without it of course, but John figured it would've been much more suspicious had he come home from a pub without having a single drink.

However, as he set foot in the flat, John realized that half of his efforts had been for naught. Sherlock was still holed up in his room if the still present Belstaff and empty living room were anything to go by, but John didn't regret it in the least. He didn't pretend to be as clever or insightful as Sherlock or God forbid, Mycroft, but as the smiling doctor trudged up the stairs to his room he couldn't help but to pat himself on the back for his wit.

But as John plopped down on the familiar expanse of his bed, staring down at the bright screen of his untraceable phone, he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

What exactly did one say when they were trying to gain James Moriarty's attention?

He could text the Irishman without context or introduction, a message without any cryptic meaning but if Moriarty felt threatened or that his security was breached he'd probably just ditch the phone and get another. John could simply tell the Mastermind who he was and what he wanted, maybe just sending him a simple text asking if Jim wanted to have dinner with his initials at the end, but the move seemed far to "Irene Adler" for his tastes and John had no desire to take any pages from her book.

Or..

The doctor's heart upped its game, beating rapidly in his chest as he pondered another possible action.

Maybe be could pretend to be Sherlock, not with the intentions of romance of course, but if the detective made it known that he wanted a meeting, John was sure Moriarty would find a way to be there, especially if the messages seemed genuine.

With surprisingly steady hands, John picked up the newly purchased phone and typed in the number he'd memorized earlier, his heartbeats turning frantic as he stared down at the electronic keyboard.

_Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me? -SH_

John waited with bated breath for a response. It was silly to do so seeing as how the man could be anywhere in the world, so there was really no telling if he was awake or not but just as the doctor started to calm himself a new message popped up.

 _Naughty, naughty, Sherly. A disposable phone, hmm? What would big brother have to say about that ;) -JM xx_  
  
John paused for a moment, grinning stupidly at the screen. It'd worked. Against all odds, he messaged Jim Moriarty and by some miracle, the world's only Consulting Criminal texted him back. It was a bit of a letdown for John to know that Moriarty was only texting him because he thought it was Sherlock but John didn't let that little hitch dampen his mood.

The doctor hummed thoughtfully, trying to imagine what Sherlock would say before inspiration struck.

 _Irrelevant. Whatever Fatcroft would or wouldn't say about my actions is of little to no consequence to me. -SH_  
  
John smirked, watching the message send with a certain amount of giddiness. It sounded well enough like something the genius would say, something that made John feel a bit more proud than he probably should have but all thoughts were pushed aside as another text came through.

 _Aww Sherly, there's no need for dramatics! We both know you loooooove the Ice-Man. No need to be shy, darling. -JM xx_  
  
Despite his best efforts the ex-army doctor couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up from his throat at the Irishman's words. It was just to funny and for the moment John found himself grateful that he wasn't the only one to notice how much of an act their petty feud really was, but before the good doctor could think of something clever to say, the phone chimed with another message.

 _So! What can little old me do help you out, Sherly? I'd love to plan a crime in your name, pet :) -JM xx_  
  
John sat slightly dumbstruck for a brief moment before a slight thread of panic made itself known. He hadn't thought that far ahead, unsure if Moriarty would respond, or even if the number he memorized was correct, but as John stared down at the screen, he felt his resolve strengthen.

 _Le Gavroche, 43 Upper Brook St. Monday evening, 8 o'clock. Don't be late. -SH_  
  
The blonde doctor held his breath, waiting for the any kind of response before the evil genius finally texted him back.  
__  
Daddy doesn't like being ordered around Sherlock, but I suppose I can make an exception in this case. I am quite curious. See you soon pet. -JM xx

A pleasant shiver raced down the doctor's spine at the undeniable presentation of control that last message conveyed before flopping down on his bed with a wide grin. He had a date with Jim Moriarty, Consulting Criminal Mastermind, the most dangerous man he'd ever met and John couldn't be happier.

* * *

Despite having given himself an entire week to prepare, John felt like he had absolutely no time whatsoever. The only grace the doctor was allowed was the fact that he didn't have to try and plan the date without Sherlock knowing. While the man was undoubtedly a genius, the flow of time was often times lost upon him.

Hours gone by in his Mind Palace, entire days lost, reserved only for sleep after the events of particularly good cases. So it wasn't surprising that Sherlock could never remember if the doctor had a girlfriend or not, let alone the name of who he was currently dating. It was a both a strange gift and a constant annoyance but for the time being, John counted his blessings for the one area Sherlock lacked in.

Getting a reservation wasn't exactly hard, especially after all the time he'd spent with Sherlock and Mycroft but it was tedious none the less. He spoke to many managers, very nearly swearing at two supervisors before he'd finally gotten through to somebody that could help him.

As John finalized the reservations, he grinned at his own personal joke before fishing out the disposable phone from under his mattress.

_Reservation is under the name Watson. -SH_

John snickered, already guessing a good portion of the other man's response before it even came in.

 _How sentimental, Sherly. Domestic bliss doesn't suit you. Hopefully we can change that :* -JM xx_  
  
The pride of being right never entirely left John, not even after he turned off the mobile and slipped it back under the mattress, merely content to lay in the darkness smirking like a fool. For once in his life, John found himself eager to simply do as he wanted without stopping to consider the consequences.

* * *

There were some things Sherlock didn't know about John.

The blonde army doctor considered that brief though as he sat on the edge of the bed in a moment of respectful silence, staring down into the lid of a plain cardboard box. His fingers stilled against the lid before pushing it open, a sharp breath catching in the older man's throat as he took in the sight of his and Sherlock's faces laminated beside fake information.

He'd never once believed the words of Sally Donovan. He never thought that Sherlock would start murdering out of boredom, or that he got off on the grisly cases he worked but John accepted the fact that there was a chance they'd have to run one day. John knew that Sherlock's version of justice was not on par with the rules the Judicial system deemed fit. Sherlock Holmes was a man who lived outside the laws of society, and because of that, John knew that there would come a day where he'd do something that even Mycroft Holmes couldn't get him out of. John knew that right from the beginning of their friendship, knew it the moment he shot the cabbie and before the doctor could think better of it, he'd called in every single favor he knew.

So for months at a time, the nondescript box sat huddled in the back of his closet, containing up-to-date passports, valid I.D. cards, birth certificates and no small amount of cash in various currencies. He'd kept it for the entire length of their friendship, hiding away seemingly unnoticeable portions of his wages, parts of the payments they received from thankful clients and the like until he felt comfortable with what he saved. John continued to add to it of course, perhaps doing so a bit more irregularly than before, but there was always more than enough for an unexpected escape.

It wasn't something he ever brought up to Sherlock, something that the detective didn't really need to know about and as John untied one if the thick stacks of paper bills, he couldn't find it in himself to be guilty. He'd replenish it during the next couple paychecks but there was no way the doctor could pay for his date with what sat in his bank account at the current moment. Not to mention the suit.

With a pleased sigh, John shoved the money in his pocket, settling the lid back over the box before hiding it away.

* * *

Monday morning, John was awake and out of bed at the very break of dawn.

In a way it was a rare surprise. Not often did John manage to get up before Sherlock, especially on the days that the detective actually decided to get some rest but upon John's waking, the flat was silent. No violin, no bubbling experiments, no telly. The floor was quiet and the blonde couldn't help the easy going smile that claimed his lips as he made tea and breakfast, fully intending to do the crossword before Sherlock could spoil it for him.

With a bounce in his step, John went through his day, his mood unquestionably bright, to the point where even Sherlock took notice but the genius didn't comment. However, as the clock drew closer to 8 o'clock, John felt the beginning stages of panic.

He was meeting Jim Moriarty for dinner. In less than four hours.

It was an intimidating thought indeed and the nervous flush of worries quickly spurred the doctor into action. John took an unusually long shower, lingering in the steamy room as he tried to calm his thoughts. So much could go wrong, and he didn't even want to imagine what it would be like if Moriarty was angry at the deception. John hoped that he'd be entertained, but one could never really tell with the dark haired Irishman.

He was a constant enigma, something that both puzzled and aroused the blonde doctor.

By the time John was ready to leave he'd smoothed out his suit more often than he could remember, styled his hair twice, given himself an overly thorough shave, shined his shoes (no less than three separate times) and applied a good amount of the ridiculously expensive aftershave Sherlock gave to him the previous Christmas.

There wasn't much more John could do to make himself appear more put together, so he swallowed the knot in his stomach and trotted down the stairs to the flat like he usually did when he had a date.

As he reached the bottom, John glanced briefly over at Sherlock, smiling fondly at the impossible way the detective was sprawled out over the sofa.

"I'll be back later, don't wait up for me."

Sherlock looked up, briefly acknowledging his flatmate before doing a double take, pushing himself gracefully from the couch in a move that looked entirely unreal, "That's a Hackett, John."

The blonde froze, his heart slamming wildly behind his ribs, "And?"

Sherlock studied him with an intense level of scrutiny, his eyes narrowed in concentration, leaving John to feel frustratingly exposed, "A Mayfair in fact. It's brand new, bought less than a week ago for no less than six hundred pounds."

John closed his eyes as Sherlock spoke, his fists clenched against his side, spine going rigid as the good doctor pressed his lips into a thin line. It was so hard not to snap to his own defense, not to say anything that might possibly give away his secret.

Instead, the soldier merely glanced over his shoulder at his flatmate, his gaze serious, "Please leave this one alone, Sherlock."

The detective appeared very nearly offended, opening his mouth to offer a sharp retort before seeming to catch the grim look on John's face as he waited for the rapid fire rant of deductions that would undoubtedly follow his ridiculous request.

To the surprise of both parties, Sherlock merely shrugged, cocking his head thoughtfully before plopping gracefully back onto the sofa, "It looks good on you, John. Good luck on your date."

John stood momentarily stunned, staring at the lanky genius like he'd grown a second head before visibly shaking it off, raising an eyebrow suspiciously before grabbing his keys, "Err, thanks Sherlock. Ta."

And without another word, John was out of the flat, leaving his thoughts of Sherlock at the very back of his mind.

* * *

Like most other dates, John arrived twenty minutes earlier than intended. He always found it useful to scope out the place, to get used to the atmosphere of the restaurant, considering various topics to bring up when the conversation fell into a lull, but to John's dismay, all he felt was the raw biting teeth of nervousness. The place was unbelievably posh, hands down one of the nicest places he'd ever been and as John looked down at the various pieces of silverware, he felt his heart jump uncomfortably.

He'd never been a man of high class. The blonde knew the difference between a champagne flute and a water goblet but there were no less than five glasses above his plate, and there were at least four different forks around the placement. A number of different sized spoons to his right, three separate knives of varying degrees of sharpness, two plates and another small one off to the side with its own knife.

Panic sat hot and heavy in the army doctor's throat. He wasn't meant to be here, he had no clue what he was doing. Jim was classy, the man didn't desire money but he had lots of it. He probably dined at restaurants ten times more posh than this place and John knew without a doubt that this the fanciest place he'd ever chosen for a date. Even with the absurd amount of bills he carried in his wallet, John still worried that it wouldn't be enough, that he'd fall short.

A sharp buzz from his jacket made the blonde nearly jump out of his skin in surprise before fishing the mobile from his pocket.

_Almost there Sherly, hope you've got some good wine for me! ;) -JM xx_

The hair on the back of John's neck stood up. This was it, he was about to meet the world's only Consulting Criminal. For dinner. Like two average people dining out, and the very thought left John's mouth dry. His hands were the very epitome of steady as John carefully pressed the buttons to type out his response. That alone told the doctor just how nervous he was, just how much adrenaline had invaded his system and it took everything he had no to fidget like a kid waiting for a scolding.

_Far left, near the back. -SH_

As John stared down to the surface of the lit screen, he felt almost guilty about doing this. He felt as though a part of him was betraying Sherlock, his colleague and very best friend but as he pocketed the phone, the blonde couldn't squash his growing inability to care. He wouldn't betray Sherlock, wouldn't sell out the detective's secrets.

This was for him, for his pleasure and John immersed that thought in unshakable concrete within his mind with a sharp nod to nobody in particular.

In a moment of remembrance, John signaled to the waiter, his eyes darting towards the door, almost expecting the mad genius to be there staring at him. But, to his displeasure, the entrance was mostly empty.

"How may I be of service, Sir?"

John looked up into the younger man's face, smiling almost shakily, rubbing his palms nervously against his thighs, "Umm, I'm not exactly an expert at this sort of thing. Can you bring us, I mean umm, me a bottle of good wine?"

The service boy raised his eyebrow in question but he wore a look of profound understanding, offering a genuinely comforting smile to the nervous doctor, "Of course, Sir. Red or white?"

It was in that moment, above all odds that John heard the familiar soft, nearly sing-song Irish lit of his date. With wide eyes the soldier looked up, staring across the restaurant into the unknowing face of the most dangerous man in Britain, and perhaps even the world. His spine went ramrod straight at that first glance, his stomach knitting uncomfortably at the impeccably dressed man before John looking back to the waiter, "No idea. Either, as long as it's no less than two-hundred quid per bottle."

The server nodded in understanding, a smirk lingering on his lips, "Very nice, Sir. I'll see to it right away."

This was it. This was where Moriarty would find out that he wasn't actually Sherlock and that he never had been, where he tried to convince the intoxicating man that he was worth the trouble.

John's fists clenched against his thighs as he looked up, staring directly into the face of one James Moriarty as he approached. His face was passive, one of indifference before a dark and twisting smile captured his lips, making John want to squirm for an entirely different reason altogether.

"Well, isn't  _this_  a turn of events?" Jim slipped into the seat across from John, his movements graceful and gliding like a snake sliding through the trees, his tone laced with an undeniable tone of impressed surprise.

Jim offered a sly smile, his dark fathomless eyes glittering with amusement as leaned across the table, "Does Sherly know his little pet is playing with the fox?"

John's heart was pounding, flooding his system with a fresh burst of adrenaline as he momentarily lost himself in the easily spoken words of his companion. This was mad, absolutely and utterly mad. He knew without a single doubt that the man could easily kill him where he sat and walk out of the restaurant without anybody trying to stop him and though John knew he should be horrified, he wasn't. It excited him and made the blonde want to kneel at the Irishman's feet.

The arrival of the waiter with their wine broke the spell, allowing John to look away from the bottomless nature of the dark eyes he couldn't help but to adore, "No, he doesn't. Sherlock doesn't need to know. Wine?"

Moriarty hummed in acknowledgment and John found himself infinitely grateful that the waiter poured the wine for him, saving the blonde from the embarrassment of hoping that he actually managed to use the correct glass. The server offered them both a smile, placing the bottle in a bucket of ice beside their table, bowing his head respectfully before turning to leave.

Jim casually leaned forward, ignoring basic etiquette by placing one of his elbows on the table, "Then I guess my next question should be," His impossibly dark eyes darted up to meet John's, making the blonde's heart slam in his chest, "Why go to such great lengths to meet me?"

John took a sip of his wine, rolling the flavorful liquid against his palette, considering all the possible explanations for how he felt and what he wanted to convey before settling on the least complicated of the list, "You're intriguing, and I want to know you."

The Consulting Criminal smiled, leaning shamelessly across the table, his face close to John's, "Aren't ordinary people  _adorable_?"

Jim's voice was barely above a whisper under his breath, but John heard it none the less, his gaze hardening, "Who says I'm ordinary?"

The blonde leaned forward, staring unflinching into the face of the very man that'd once wrapped him in layers of explosives simply to prove a point, "You're exquisite, dark and more dangerous than anybody I've ever met."

John unconsciously darted his tongue out to wet his lips before continuing, his gaze darkening with something equally dangerous that the Consulting Criminal had never seen in the doctor's eyes before, "So much so that I'd risk death just to sit across from you."

Moriarty laced his fingers together, staring into the depths of John's face, "I could have Sebastian kill you right now."

To prove his point, a tiny little red dot appeared just above his heart, but John didn't even bat an eye, "I know."

Neither of them looked away, the intense waves of tension between them growing at an alarming rate with neither party willing to back down before somebody to their right cleared their throat. Knowing the kind of man Moriarty was, John looked away first, turning to stare at the waiting server with a light blush.

"Please pardon the intrusion, are you gentleman ready to order?"

A flush of colour darkened John's cheeks further as he quickly picked up the menu before staring at it in utter horror.

He had absolutely no idea what half of the stuff was, or how to pronounce it.

Unadulterated panic ran wild and unflinching within his heart as the organ slammed against the cage of his ribs, his eyes scanning the various dishes, trying to find a single item that he'd heard of before and could correctly pronounce, even if it ended up being something that he hated.

"My date will have the Râble de Lapin et Galette au Parmesan." Jim darted his eyes towards John's face, smirking unabashed at the gobsmacked expression on his face, "And I'll have the Côte de Veau aux Morilles et Pommes Mousseline."

The waiter dipped his head, "Very well, gentlemen." He collected the menus with a practiced flourish before disappearing among the crowd, leaving John to stare very nearly open mouth across the table at his date.

"You speak French?"

Moriarty giggled despite appearing almost insulted by the question, "Of course I do, darling. What do you take me for? Some uncultured neanderthal bumbling about the city?"

In this particular instance John found himself grateful that easily spoken insults glided right off his back when he caught the genius off guard with a bright smile, "Not at all, Jim. I was just surprised, that's all."

The dark haired man regarded him with a look of near curiosity, not even bothering to comment on the use of his given name as the criminal cocked his head just slightly to the side in a way that reminded John way too much of his flatmate, "Your pronunciation was flawless and it sounded quite beautiful. I suppose it isn't that big of a deal for somebody as brilliant as you. Do you know any other languages?"

Moriarty's eyes widened just the slightest amount at John's uttered words. It was startling, in a way, to see such a real expression crossing the man's features. James Moriarty was an actor, a serpent that shed his identity easier than a snake outgrowing its skin and to see something so genuine upon his face made the older man hungry for more. It made John want to see what the Consulting Criminal looked like when he just woke up, how his features appeared when he was in the throes of pleasure or lazing about his flat watching telly.

"You think I'm brilliant?"

John was nearly taken aback by the softly spoken question before flashing his most breathtaking smile, "Of course I do, Jim. I mean," the blonde took a sip of his wine before continuing, "Not to bring him up in poor taste or anything but anybody that can outwit Sherlock Holmes has to be beyond brilliant."

But rather than stopping there, as John felt he should, his mouth seemed to get away from him, the words spilling from his lips before he could attempt to hold them back, "I'm not sure how extensive it it, but you've managed to create a fully functioning criminal network spanning the entire globe with only a few people knowing your name, let alone what you look like. Bloody impressive, that's what you are." John laughed easily, before his eyes went wide and he remembered their surroundings.

"I - I mean, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that here."

Regardless of the obvious slip of the tongue, the dark haired genius appeared more comfortable than ever despite looking quite baffled, staring at John with an open kind of scrutiny he hadn't bothered to show before, "Perhaps you aren't as ordinary as I thought."

A sort of silence fell over the two of them, but to the surprise of both parties, it wasn't awkward in the least.

It'd been unstable in the beginning with both John and Jim unsure of the other's motivations, But in their moment of relaxed comfort, all was calm. Jim wasn't going to kill the blonde army doctor for his deception and John wasn't luring the Consulting Criminal out for the Ice-Man. Though their evolved intentions were still masked behind a murky veil of mystery, both were content to let it unravel as it came, their focus more inclined towards the other.

But, as all things must, the moment of clarity eventually passed with the approach of their waiter.

"I apologize for the wait, gentlemen," He laid their food out without prompt, his movements fluid and practiced, "Please enjoy your evening."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving them to the quiet space of their table, but for John, the urge to turn tail and flee became more pronounced than ever. It returned with an unyielding urgency and this time, it had nothing to do with the craziness of the situation or the dangerous man sitting across from him and had everything to do with the fact that he felt unbelievably foolish.

He had no clue what was in front of him, which wasn't really that big of an issue considering that John wasn't particularly picky about his food, but he also had no clue how to eat it.

A quick glance up at the Consulting Criminal gave mixed and, quite frankly, frustrating results. The man was as graceful as a predator, wielding his weapons of choice, in this case a fork and a knife, with unadulterated precision as he ate. He was unconcerned, picking up the various utensils with ease as he continued and as the blonde army doctor glanced back down at his own plate, he couldn't help but to feel a stab of pained envy. John had no idea what fork was meant for the main course, and what could only be used for salad. He wasn't sure if the bread plate was absolutely limited to bread, even if he didn't have any, and as the seconds ticked on, the soldier began to feel his panic grow.

"Problem, Johnny Boy?"

The barely contained suspicion of Jim's tone and the use of his childhood nickname caught the doctor's attention immediately, his eyes darting to those of his date, taking in the way those bottomless eyes looked on with minor curiosity before he cleared his throat.

John gave a shaky chuckle, trying to cover up his unease, "Not at all, I've just never eaten anything this fancy." Dark blue eyes darted over to the forks.

It was a simple matter and in the long run it wouldn't really matter what one he chose to eat with, but John didn't want to embarrass himself. Moriarty was no fool, he obviously knew the ropes for posh establishments like this and John already knew that he was only interesting enough to keep the genius minorly occupied and he didn't want to appear ignorant.

In the midst of his internal conflict John was suddenly brought to the present when Jim leaned over the table, his long fingers reaching out to snatch one of the blonde's forks. Confusion sat apparent on the older man's features. His brows were wrinkled, a look of contemplation heavy on his face before they rose in surprise as his companion stabbed the tines into the center of the doctor's entree, his eyes locked with John's.

It was a flare of intensity, the way neither of them refused to look away while Jim was still half leaned over the table, his fingers loose and uncaring around the end of the fork. His eyes were dark, unflinching and unlimited in a way that John had never seen on another living person but as the criminal's lips parted, the blonde found himself taken by the devil's words, "Eat."

A small, and yet, saddened tilt came to the Irishman's lips, an unconscious psychological tic caused by the unwelcome remembrance of a memory long passed no doubt, "I'm not a man who tolerates rudeness, John, but know that there's no shame in eating your food in peace."

The man's eyes became hard, full of a certain amount of loathing that left John feeling more ensnared than anything else, "These people are blind. They know nothing because they see nothing." Moriarty sneered in a way that reminded John, strangely enough, of both Sherlock and Mycroft, "And you're worth more than all of their fake personalities. Enjoy your meal and forget about them."

Jim released the blonde's fork, leaving it buried in the center of his food but in a move that surprised them both, John captured the younger man's hand, examining it carefully. John didn't have to be a genius like Sherlock to deduce that a lot could be said about a person merely by the state of their hands. The history of their life could be read through the scars, through the placement of calluses and the lines on their palms and with a certain hint of caution, John gazed into the life of James Moriarty through skin and experience.

His fingers were much like Sherlock's, long and shapely, almost as if they were meant to caress the strings of an instrument. His nails were well taken care of, clipped short, well manicured. He took care of them, a sure-fire statement about the nature of his luxury but as John looked closer, he knew that things had not always been such for the most feared man in Britain. The faintest lines appeared along his knuckles, scars that'd healed long ago but in them John could see glimpses of himself; dirty fights that never seemed to end, split knuckles and fractured bones.

They looked like childhood squabbles that continued on into his teenage years, like the harshly spoken words of others that couldn't hope to understand, like busted drywall and the unforgiving nature of an alcoholic parent.

It was like a hole being blown open in his psyche, the way John instantly connected with the Consulting Criminal and as he looked up from his date's hand, he knew it was apparent all over his face. In that moment, John could see his own childhood reflected in the abyss of those eyes that'd captivated him since the moment they met and as John stared, unmoving in the face of calamity, he knew that Jim understood too.

* * *

The rest of their date went surprisingly well. An air of comfort surrounded them in a way that should've been impossible considering who they were but it remained none the less. Jim was as entertaining as ever, near comical in the descriptions of his stories and as time passed, John found himself more and more intrigued.

In the beginning, he'd merely sought the man for his danger, for the darkness that sat coiled and merciless in the depths of his soul but as the evening drew on, John began to realize that there was so much more to him than just power. He was a genius, as undeniably as Sherlock or Mycroft, a near ungodly strategist and exceedingly amusing. His deductions weren't nearly on par with those of his flatmate, but Jim could still tell the difference between a man cheating on his wife with her brother and a waiter that was actually filling in for his twin.

It was familiar and comfortable in a way that should've been unnerving but John felt more at home than he could ever remember on a first date and as they traveled in an nondescript car back to Baker Street, John could practically feel the electric current between them. Both men lingered in comfortable silence, not really having much more to say but content in the other's company as they continued on, but eventually, 221B came into view.

The car pulled smoothly to the curb, idling beside it as if they had all the time in the world and suddenly John felt a stab of panic. Should he kiss Moriarty? John would be lying if he said that he didn't want to, but as it'd been made clear on more than one occasion, the man was changeable. There was no telling if he'd actually want to kiss John but as doubt began to make itself known, the blonde felt Jim's warm fingers grip his wrist.

Oceanic eyes turned to those of his companion and Moriarty flashed him his most obnoxious smile, "What's wrong, Johnny Boy, don't I get a kiss?"

John wanted to make a witty comeback, something that would help to distance himself from the truth of just how much he wanted to taste those sinister lips, but he couldn't. The words wouldn't come. All that John could see was the unusually patient man before him, the sensual curve of his lips, the tilt of his knowing smirk and without thought or prompt, the blonde doctor leaned forward, capturing Jim's lips in a kiss.

Despite where he usually stood with women, John knew that he would not be the one to control their kiss and in the face of his decision, the blonde didn't even try.

With his silent offer of submission, James immediately took control, his clever tongue sweeping shamelessly along the seam of John's mouth, demanding entrance. Without thought, the blonde doctor complied, parting his lips obediently for the Irishman. It was maddening, the brief moment of anticipation that seemed to stretch on forever before Moriarty's tongue finally met his own, gliding sensually along John's in a deliberately teasing gesture. As they continued, Jim's dexterous fingers came up to wrap possessively around John's throat in a display of ownership, leaving the doctor feeling more vulnerable than ever.

And certainly John was consumed, overtaken by the daring brushes of Moriarty's tongue against his own and the raging inferno of desire that'd begun to rage with intensity as blood raced with newfound adrenaline. It was just as addicting as he knew it'd be and John couldn't help but to moan, color flooding his cheeks at the sound.

Steady hands gripped the lapels of James' coat, pulling him closer as John threw himself wholeheartedly into their snog. Growing bold, John nipped at the younger man's lower lip only to whimper as Moriarty squeezed his throat in warning, immediately taking back control. With expert precision, Jim put The danger fueled soldier back in his place, dragging his tongue sensually against that of his date, teasing the blonde with fleeting seductions, luring him closer before pulling away all together.

John felt dazed, his heart hammering relentlessly beneath Moriarty's as the soldier sought his bearings. He knew how he must look to the criminal, glassy eyed with arousal, cheeks flushed, lips kiss swollen. It was nearly embarrassing and John was sure he would've felt as such if the genius wasn't staring at him with a predatory expression, his dark eyes hungry and promising. It was arousing beyond belief, but just as John was about to beg the Consulting Criminal to take him anywhere other than 221B and wreck him, the doctor caught sight of Sherlock in the window.

He was eyeing the car with suspicion, most likely trying to deduce if it was one of Mycroft's and in that moment John found himself infinitely grateful that the car they were in had heavily tinted windows.

Being who he was, Jim missed nothing, his eyes darting up to the window in time to catch Sherlock disappearing from view, "Curiouser and curiouser."

The Irishman's sing-song voice brought an amused smile to John's face, "Looks that way."

Jim smirked, the tilt of his lips nothing short of arrogant, "I'm used to it. Haven't you heard, darling? I'm Mr. Sex."

John released Moriarty's coat with a snort, smoothing out the wrinkles that he'd made in the expensive garment, "I probably should've mentioned that I don't put out on the first date."

Despite the blonde's blatant glimpse of amusement veiled insecurity, Jim grinned, gliding his fingers along the curve of John's jaw as the criminal relinquished his hold on the army doctor's throat, "I expected nothing less from a high-bred lady such as yourself, Johnny."

John chuckled, not offended by the comment in the least, even as the younger man leaned away from him, pressed back in the luxury leather seats, crossing his legs in a distinctly posh manner that made him look ominous and powerful. In that moment, as John moved to open the door, Moriarty looked entirely like the man he was, the cold and unflinching King of a criminal network and, to his embarrassment, John could feel his erection straining against his trousers.

A coy grin curled Jim's lips and he tsked at the increasingly flustered appearance of his enemy's best friend, "How interesting. Who knew you'd have an affinity for _powerful_  men? Does Daddy do it for you, pet?"

John's cheeks burned with growing arousal as he slid out of the car before muttering, "Bit slow on the information curve on that one, Mr. Moriarty."

The genius' eyes darkened at the barely spoken words, his eyes following John's movements, "Don't prod the dragon if you aren't prepared to take the heat, Johnny."

"Bring it on," Rather than shutting the door on that note like he wanted to, John glanced back in the car, his eyes hard and unyielding as they met those of his growing affection, "Can I text you for another date soon?"

James Moriarty flashed the doctor a sinister smile that made John want to shiver, his fists clenched in preparation to be rejected only to be surprised when the Irishman nodded, "Absolutely, pet. Give Sherly my regards."

A small snort of amusement pulled itself from from John's lips, the easy flow of his character returning as he shook his head, "Not bloody likely."

With a final look at the consulting criminal, John shut the door, taking a step back from the curb and watching it disappear from view before he turned back to 221B with a deep breath and a blinding smile. It'd been successful, and even though John knew he'd have his hands full with a very interested detective the moment he walked into the flat, John couldn't be arsed to care. He'd snagged the attention of the world's only consulting criminal and, to John, it'd be worth all of Sherlock's sulking and more.

As John made his way up the stairs, a small part of his conscious worried about whether or not Sherlock would immediately deduce who he'd shared conversation with but as he stepped foot into the flat, meeting the lanky genius' eyes, John found that he didn't care about that either. The thing about Sherlock, he'd discovered, was that the curly haired man very rarely reacted to surprising circumstances in a way that normal people would imagine. Even knowing the brunette's habits and the nature of his personality, John was often surprised by Sherlock's various responses to the actions of others.

If there was ever a physical manifestation of balance, of true neutrality, John thought that it'd be Sherlock Holmes.

So, even in his uncertainty, John lingered in the doorway, attention glued to his flatmate's face as the detective deduced him. Sherlock's intense aquamarine eyes seemed to dart suspiciously over John's form, and the blonde couldn't hope to imagine all that he saw. Was the younger man taking in the wrinkles of his suit, the dignified set of his jaw and the look of preparation on his features? Could he see just how nervous John actually was, how much he both dreaded and anticipated Sherlock's verdict or did the man only see the bare bones of his evening?

In the blink of an eye, the moment was broken, all the deductions made and Sherlock looked as if he'd been struck, his sharp features twisted into a look of near panic and disgust.

John's stomach dropped, his heart clenched in a vise as he took a step forward only to watch as his best friend moved away, "Sherlock, I can explain."

The detective sneered, "Don't bother, John. It's all clear as day."

Sherlock advanced on him like a scavenger, his eyes hard and unrelenting as John prepared to be butchered by the other man's words, "Your trousers are excessively wrinkled, particularly on the thighs. You were nervous, rubbing your palms against the material while you waited. Statistically more likely because of the fact that your date was a man rather than the posh nature of your destination."

Sherlock circled him, continuing on without room for thought or pause, "Going by the hints of bergamot, cardamom, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg," Sherlock paused to give a sharp inhale just above John's shoulder, "with grapefruit, pineapple, and lavender, he was wearing a rather specific and tasteful cologne. Pierre Bourdon's Ambre Topkapi if I'm not mistaken. Expensive. One of the most expensive bottled scents on the market. So, no stranger to luxury."

The brunette finally stilled in front of John, his eyes cold and calculating, "The stain on your shirt collar says French cuisine. Possibly beef but something smaller was more likely. Rabbit, possibly even duck. He must have ordered since you've never shown any previous disposition for the French language. He was probably fluent. So domineering, borderline control freak if I had to guess."

In an act of near sulking proportions, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, "And of course there's the car. Nondescript, tinted windows way over the legal shade, carbon copy licence plates, government issue no doubt."

"Really, John?" He hissed venomously, "My own _brother_? You thought I wouldn't notice that you'd taken an interest in Mycroft of all people -"

But before the dark haired man could continue to his, no doubt, scathing conclusion, John was practically bursting with laughter, ignoring Sherlock's gobsmacked expression of disbelief. It was unstoppable, the way his laughter continued, forcing the doctor to double over, nearly gripping his ribs to keep himself from falling apart at the sheer irony of it all.

When he could finally breath, John straightened, wiping the escaped moisture from his eyes before looking to his very nearly affronted best friend, "Christ Sherlock, I've never been so happy to see you be wrong."

If the detective hadn't been so completely surprised by his statement, John was sure that he would've appeared offended, "Come now, John! Statistically speaking between the two of us there's only two reasonable possibilities for who -"

Sherlock's eyes widened to near comical size as the other shoe finally dropped, his voice barely above a whisper, "Moriarty."

John didn't confirm or deny the statement but his silence on the subject spoke louder than words ever could have.

The blonde doctor chanced a peek at his flatmate, the disbelief and borderline betrayal sitting on the taller man's features twisting his heart in a pained knot, "How could you, John. Have you been.. this whole time..?"

John's attention snapped up in alarm at the soft and vulnerable tone of Sherlock's voice, "No! No, of course not! Christ Sherlock," the soldier raked a frustrated hand through his hair, desperately trying to find the words to explain something that he himself didn't fully understand, "I never wanted this to.. to try and explain -"

John stopped, rubbing his eyes in mental exhaustion before dropping heavily into his chair, "It was just the one date, Sherlock."

The near omniscient detective perched across from the doctor in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, "But you're going to see him again."

It wasn't a question, merely a statement spoken clinically without anger or judgement and John could feel the tightness of his throat as emotion threatened to choke him, "Yes."

Sherlock hummed, sitting back in his chair before the vibration of an incoming text broke the growing silence between them. Hawk-like eyes missed nothing and, with a heavy heart, John pulled the disposable phone from his pocket to stare at the lit up screen.

_Don't be too hard on John, Sherly. He was just having a bit of fun -JM xx_

The doctor sucked in a sharp breath before looking up at Sherlock with a certain amount of dreadful anticipation before passing him the mobile, "It's for you."

Lengthy violinist's fingers reached out to snatch the small device, inspecting it momentarily before reading the message with a small frown, "Interesting."

Sherlock looked up at the nervous blonde with a sense of curiosity, cocking his head just slightly with thoughtful consideration, "This phone is less than two weeks old, John, brand new. You couldn't have ordered it without Mycroft knowing. You would've had to go out and buy it personally, but that makes even less sense. Mycroft should have known the moment you purchased it, and that still doesn't explain how you got Moriarty's number or why he agreed to meet you."

The detective appeared genuinely at a loss, and rather than staying quiet and letting him work it out, John decided to just fess up. No matter what, the truth would come out and since he'd already been discovered, it was easier to just give Sherlock the details he was asking for.

"I took the number from your phone." John rubbed self consciously at the back of his neck, briefly meeting his best friend's gaze before continuing, "After we fought I went to the pub and traded fifty quid for a stranger's jacket and a cap so I could slip away without Mycroft seeing."

John stared at his hands, thinking of earlier when he'd practically read Jim's life story through his skin, the doctor's voice dropping to a whisper, "I pretended to be you texting him about a potential crime."

Sherlock appeared mildly shocked before recognition caught up with him, "The table."

John nodded, staring down at his hands and beginning to wonder if the date was even remotely worth it before Sherlock chuckled, "Absolutely brilliant, John."

The doctor nearly choked in surprise, "Hang on, what?" He looked up to find the curly haired genius who was grinning at him unabashed, "What's brilliant?"

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, "You, John. Obviously." He crossed his legs with an air of nonchalance that left the ex army doctor's head spinning, "Try to keep up."

John merely gaped at radical turn their conversation had taken before desperately trying to backtrack and figure out where he'd gotten lost, "I'm sorry, backup, Sherlock. You aren't angry?"

He expected the detective to give him a look that said he was being tedious but instead Sherlock merely chuckled and settled further back in his chair, crossing his legs in a show of relaxation as the detective assumed his signature thinking position, steepling his fingers thoughtfully, "Of course not, John. I'm more intrigued than anything."

Despite Sherlock's aversion to words being repeated, John couldn't think past what was being spoken, "Intrigued."

The dark haired genius smirked, his patience at John's slow processing lasting longer than the doctor could ever remember, "That what I said John. Don't be dull."

Sherlock leaned forward, "Do you realize that you single handedly managed to out wit not only me, but two of the smartest people on Earth simultaneously? Without any sort of aid?" The younger man grinned, returning to his casually leaned back stance, "I knew you weren't ordinary, John Watson."

John's head was spinning, his thoughts a jumbled wave of chaotic nonsense as he tried to put it all together before shoving it all away with effort as he stood from his chair, "You know what? Tea. I need tea."

"Sugar with no milk for me, John."

"I bloody well know how you take your tea, Sherlock!" The doctor snapped as he puttered around the kitchen, moving experiments and beakers, hunting for the tea and sugar. As John waited for the kettle to boil, he stood gripping the edges of the counter, trying to figure out what exactly just happened and whether or not he should feel relieved or even more worried.

On one hand it was nice to know that he didn't have to keep secrets from Sherlock but that didn't mean that the other man would be willing to jump right in and accept his newfound change of heart where Moriarty was concerned.

The man was still a criminal, a brilliant mastermind that could afford throw away thirty million quid and one of a kind nuclear missile plans just to make a point and the fact of the matter was that Sherlock's older brother was  _the_  British Government. Sherlock may not have always played by the rules, preferring to do things his own way but, in his own complicated way, the genius was loyal to his brother. He often took cases of national security after a fair amount of insults and complaints and John knew without a doubt that James Moriarty was the biggest threat to British national security that they'd ever personally met.

"Sherlock."

His voice was barely above a whisper, but he knew the detective heard it. John could feel his best friend's unflinching gaze against his back, waiting patiently as the doctor collected himself.

Even without having to think about it, John knew what'd happen if the elder Holmes found out about John's deception, about his entanglement with the enemy. He'd either be subjected to spying on the Irishman or he'd run the risk of Mycroft having him kidnapped and interrogated for potential information while Sherlock was busy.

"Please don't tell Mycroft." John's knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the countertop before he looked over his shoulder at the startled detective, his face raw and open, his voice cracking, "Please, Sherlock."

John remembered not long ago how, after a dazzling display of his brilliance, Sherlock told Irene Adler that he'd never begged for mercy in his life and as John considered Mycroft's reaction, he couldn't help but to think that, in this instance, he was the one begging for mercy.

"You know he's bound to find out eventually, John."

The doctor dropped his head, cursing his inability to keep his emotions in check and, not for the first time, he wished that he could compartmentalize like his flatmate, to view all things with an air of pure logic when needed.

He knew, of course, that Mycroft would eventually become savvy to the secret, especially if he kept going the way he was. Mycroft had eyes everywhere, ears within the very walls and there was no keeping a long term secret from the man. If John just dropped it, just let the Irishman go without a word, it would all be over and he'd be free to take the secret to his grave but he couldn't.

Even as he stood trembling before the stove, all John could think about were those scarred knuckles, of the look on Moriarty's face when the doctor called him brilliant and the calm tone of his voice when he'd reassured John during their meal.

In his moment of thought, John hadn't even noticed Sherlock's approach, remaining perfectly unaware of the younger man's silent gravitation until the curly haired detective clasped his shoulder, making the blonde jump in surprise.

"John?"

Sherlock's unease with all things emotional wasn't lost on the army doctor and despite everything, he was grateful to his best friend for the support.

"I know I can't keep Mycroft in the dark forever, but Christ Sherlock," John slammed his palm down onto the counter, his muscles tense with frustration, "I don't want to become a goddamn spy, gathering and trading information until nobody that I care about can tell if I'm lying or not!"

Sherlock stilled, his eyes frozen on John's face, "And you care about Moriarty?"

Twin blonde brows pulled together in a look bordering dangerously on denial but as John opened his mouth to object, the words died on his lips.

_Did he?_

It wasn't to say that he loved the Irishman, because he didn't. Not yet at least. They'd only been on a single date, two if you counted the Semtex, but it'd be a lie if John said that he didn't care what happened to the dark haired criminal. During the flirty bantering texts and their date, John had caught the briefest and tiniest glimpse of something other than the monster. He'd longed for that darkness alone, to sample it and move on, but in the process he'd tasted something even more exquisite and it'd made John hungry for more.

He wanted to take Jim Moriarty apart, and be taken apart by him.

"Yes."

In a move that seemed to startle them both, the detective clapped his hands together and flashed a purely Sherlockian smile, "Well! That settles that." And with an uncaring flourish, the genius spun on heel, stalking into the living room and dropping heavily onto the couch, immediately assuming his Mind Palace position.

John smiled fondly at his best friend as he made their tea on autopilot, his hands so practiced in the motions that he didn't bother paying them mind. The man was a prat, an unbelievably rude git, but he was also incredibly loyal to those he bothered to call friend and he meant everything to John.

With motions borne of repetition, John made his way over to the lanky detective's side, setting the tea down on the coffee table even though he was nearly positive that it'd go to waste while Sherlock laid submerged in his mind, but that didn't matter. It was how John watched out for him, how he let the younger man know that he cared about his wellbeing without the use of words.

With a final look towards his flatmate, John grabbed his own cup of tea and jogged up the stairs towards his bedroom, setting down the mug and flopping unceremoniously on the bed before remembering that he was currently in a six-hundred pound suit. John groaned, forcing himself up as he undressed, only to remember the disposal phone at the last minute.

After minimal searching, John fished it from his pocket, smiling down at the last message Moriarty sent. It was sweet, in an odd way and John couldn't help the sentimental feelings that came alongside it as he casually glided his thumbs over the electronic keyboard before deciding to text Jim.

_So, about that second date. How do you feel about the cinema? -JW_

* * *

After much debate from both sides, Sherlock included, it was finally decided that their date would take place at 221B instead of the actual cinema.

As per the usual before a date he was nervous about, John was upstairs, double and triple checking everything to make sure all was well. Not that he needed it, even from downstairs Sherlock could tell without a doubt that everything was in order. John would wear his favored oatmeal jumper despite having taken it off to change no less than three - no four - times in the past ten minutes. He could possibly decide on the black button down shirt to appear more put together, so to speak, but the jumper was more likely. In John's case, the desire for comfort was statistically more probable than that of the impression factor and since the blonde doctor already impressed his date once, he'd choose the jumper.

_Obvious._

A soft click from down below alerted Sherlock to the arrival of their guest, his mind no longer wandering as the lanky detective rose from his favored chair, eyes narrowed as he moved to stand in the doorway, watching as his arch-nemesis casually climbed the stairs.

"Sherly! How good to see you! Did John give you my regards? I bet he didn't." Moriarty flashed a borderline sinister grin that the detective chalked up more to habit than any real form of malice, Sherlock's muscles tensing as the Irishman came to a halt mere steps away from the genius.

To the surprise of no one, Sherlock said nothing. His eyes merely bored into those of his darker half, staring into the endless pits, sizing him up and trying to gather every scrap of information available before John finally came downstairs.

It was a jumble, contradictions all over the place and Sherlock knew without a doubt that all was planned that way for his annoyance, or as the consultant would probably say, his entertainment.

Moriarty much have seen his recognition because the criminal immediately flashed him an amused look, "Come now, Sherlock. Didn't Mummy ever tell you that it's rude to stare?"

Sherlock continued to linger in his silence, eyes narrowed as he tried to find a single detail, the most minor scraps of evidence that the man before him wasn't genuine in his reasoning for being here. As before, he found nothing but there wasn't a single part of Sherlock that believed otherwise, that saw Moriarty as anything other than a cancer that'd now spread to the walls of his home, but he trusted John.

In all ways, Sherlock Holmes trusted John Watson, and if the good doctor saw fit to invite James Moriarty into their home, then Sherlock would step aside for the time being and allow it.

The two geniuses stood toe-to-toe, the only thing separating them being the threshold to their flat where Sherlock continued to stand unflinching before the most dangerous man, bar Mycroft, in the world. Despite the fact that Sherlock had already decided to allow the monstrosity that was James Moriarty into the flat he shared with John, the detective refused to do so without first speaking his mind.

It was not often that Sherlock was driven to speak from the heart, but as he stared into the face of all that he strived against, the younger man couldn't stop the flow of words from rolling off his tongue, "I don't pretend to understand the nature of sentiment or gut feelings."

Moriarty cocked his head, watching with undisguised curiosity as Sherlock continued, "I prefer the solidity of facts and statistics but John has deemed you trustworthy enough to be here. I will respect that because I respect John, but know this, James," The Irishman's eyes widened at the use of his given name, "If you spin him a web of lies and leave him broken and humiliated, there isn't a hole deep or dark enough on this Earth where you can hide from me."

Sherlock's voice dropped to a deadly serious hiss and for the first time since they met, Moriarty was clearly able to see the carefully contained darkness that Sherlock Holmes kept contained within the barriers of his soul, "You have my word, if that happens I will find you, skin you alive and leave you to die slowly in the most rank and disgusting manner I can possibly come up with and trust me when I say that I can be

creative."

Intensity flared between them before John's unmistakable footsteps echoed through the flat as they doctor trotted down the stairs, "Sherlock have you seen my - Oh. I didn't hear you come up."

The detective didn't look away from his staring contest with Moriarty, unwilling to back down but also unwilling to ignore his best friend, "On the table."

Though he couldn't see, Sherlock was positive that John had frowned, going to retrieve the disposable mobile he'd been searching for without question before approaching the two men, "Sherlock, what did I say?"

Aquamarine eyes stared into black pools, his face blank and unyielding before, to his surprise, Jim looked away to address John with a wink, "Apologies pet, you know how I love to tease. I couldn't resist."

John snorted in amusement, clapping Sherlock in the shoulder in a gesture that was probably meant to convey understanding and amusement before the doctor turned away and shuffled to the kitchen, "How do you feel about popcorn, Jim?"

Moriarty looked back towards Sherlock, dipping his head in the most subtle of acknowledgements as he accepted the serious nature of his threatening promise, his eyes open and unassuming as he looked back towards John, "It's my favorite."

At the Irishman's acceptance, Sherlock grabbed his scarf and the iconic Belstaff from the hook beside the door, side-stepping Jim with ease as he readied himself to leave.

John poked his head out of the kitchen at the first sound of movement, "Where are you off to?"

Sherlock flipped the collar on his coat up to protect the back of his neck, glancing towards the window at the rain outside, "Morgue. Got a text from Molly that she received a liver infected with a rare type of toxin."

John flashed him one of those smiles of fondness that the detective secretly enjoyed, "Alright, tell her I said hello."

The curly haired genius waved it off with a noncommittal noise before turning and dashing down the stairs with all the impatience of his general being, even if in truth he was hesitant to leave.

Sherlock wasn't a man of romantic attachment. He was a scientist, a philosopher on occasion but mostly, he was a man who strove for the truth. Of all that he was, a sentimentalist wasn't one of them. The detective could barely manage the complicated waters of friendship but regardless of everything, Sherlock knew that if he'd ever decided to attempt the ropes of romance, that if there'd ever been somebody he would've decided to give his heart to, it would've been John.

Sherlock was married to his work, that much had always been true, but deep in the rarely awoken walls of his beating heart, the detective worried for his best friend. He worried for John and all that could happen should Moriarty prove to be false, but Sherlock trusted John and as he slipped out into the night, the genius just had to hope that it would be enough.

* * *

In the wake of Sherlock's rather abrupt departure, John busied himself in the kitchen, trying not to think about the fact that the world's only consulting criminal was wandering around his living room, looking at the various knick knacks and the odd jumble of things that'd made their home in 221B.

John felt uneasy. He was pleased to see the Irishman, glad that he'd came, but in the heart of the storm that'd become his life, the blonde doctor could feel the tension. There was nothing to keep the truth from making a center among them. No restaurant patrons or nosy waiters that they had to be aware of. There were no masks here, no polite ways to sidestep in the hopes of avoiding a scene. Within 221B, they were free to as they wished, which to John, was both a relief and a source of constant worry.

Moriarty trailed his fingertips across the tabletop, startling John with his silent approach, "This place is different than the last time I was here."

The blonde raised an eyebrow in question, "And just when did Sherlock invite you over for tea?"

An amused snort came from the younger man before he turned and retreated to the living room, dropping gracefully onto the couch, "I'm glad you think so highly of me, Pet."

Unabashed eyes looked around, no doubt cataloging the new additions to the room as John made his way over to Jim's side with the popcorn in hand, "I admit, s'quite different when there's actually somebody here."

John wanted to be offended that Moriarty had apparently broken into the flat he shared with Sherlock but all he could do really was chuckle at the absurdity of it all. In truth it sounded exactly like something Jim would do and, after thinking about it for a fraction of a second, the blonde doctor realized that he wasn't even the least bit surprised.

In fact, he found The idea oddly  _amusing_.

The previous air of distilled unease seemed to melt away in the face of John's entertainment as he flicked off the lights and plopped down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and some crisps, "You know, I'm not saying Baker Street isn't a right adventure or anything, especially with the stuff Sherlock keeps around but you know what you should do?"

In the darkness, John could see the criminal arch a brow as he settled in not six inches away from the older man, "I'm all ears."

John glanced around for the remote before swiping it with up a victorious sound, his attention quickly returning to the man at his side, "One of these days while Mycroft is here bothering Sherlock, you should break into his house and move everything two inches to the left."

In a moment of genuine entertainment, Moriarty burst into laughter, not bothering to mask it with a sinister smile or a blatantly mocking comment of any sort before turning to John, "My, my, Johnny-boy. Did you just advise me to break into the British Government's residence? How exceedingly naughty of you."

John snickered, switching the telly on, "Yeah well, he's a prick."

The older man popped a few of the crisps into his mouth with a shrug, "Might get you some points where Sherlock is concerned too. Who knows."

With a chuckle, the Irishman snagged a handful of popcorn, playfully tossing each of the pieces into the air one by one and catching them in his mouth, "Not to rain on your parade, pet, but Daddy doesn't think the Ice-man would appreciate the gesture very much. No matter how thoughtful."

John settled back against the couch, sneaking a glance over at the dark haired man with a grin, "Is that your way of saying that you don't know where he lives?"

"Apples and oranges, darling, apples and oranges."

In the face of that admission, John found himself feeling slightly smug. Not only because he managed to correctly decipher the hidden meaning in the other man's words but also because he knew exactly where Mycroft lived. Despite the fact that John wasn't up for potentially having the man assassinated by giving out sensitive information in his desire for a good prank, the address was right on the tip of his tongue and as John considered that fact, he felt his mouth go dry.

John wasn't a particularly religious man. He'd gone to church as a child by the stern word of his mother and father, who'd desperately sought to appear normal despite the clear as day dysfunction of their family. In a moment of panic he'd once prayed to a God he never held in particularly high regard to save him from impending death. He considered the afterlife on occasion, like most people, and wondered what may await those that cross to the other side but as John Watson glanced sideways into the curious eyes of his date, he began to realize just how little he'd thought about the Devil.

John didn't pretend to believe that what'd occurred in the book of the Lord was to be taken at absolute face value. He saw the word of God more as a guide, a book of stories with a meaning and a lesson behind each one but as John turned to stare unabashed into the face of one James Moriarty he knew without a doubt that if there was ever a mortal who could've claimed to be the devil incarnate, it would be him.

This man, who should've repulsed John down to his very core being but didn't, who disregarded life with an unconscious flick of his wrist and the song of his voice made the blonde completely and utterly comfortable in a way that scared him. Despite knowing just how dangerous he was and what the Irishman was capable of, he'd very nearly spouted off Mycroft's personal address just for a few laughs.

It was startling just how much trust he'd placed in the hands of a man who could have him killed at the drop of a dime, how easily he invited the criminal into his home and the sheer desire to spill every single one of the secrets he'd held so close and dear to his heart.

In the face of his decision, John knew what the outcome might be, knew that the thrill of the hunt might turn on him in this instance but what he didn't account for was how it would feel to recognize himself as the prey.

John should've felt nothing but disgust towards Jim Moriarty, he should've been reaching for a carefully concealed weapon to kill him where he sat but he didn't. All he could think about was how close Jim was, about how much he wanted to believe that his trust wasn't misplaced, but above all, he desperately wanted to believe that he wasn't in so far over his head that he'd become emotionally invested in a man that he could never have any sort of future with.

Because, as it were, the truth wasn't pleasant.

The truth was that if he put himself out there John would always wonder just what Jim did with all the information he'd collect in his presence. He'd constantly wonder if it was an act, if it was all real or if Jim was just waiting around to jerk the rug out from under the life he'd built for himself with Sherlock, because really, what other reason would a man as powerful and influential as Jim be doing in a place like 221B with a man as ordinary as John?

"Stop."

The blonde doctor immediately came back to himself, his thoughts put on the back burner as he focused on the other man, "What?"

Moriarty frowned and, in the space of a mere second, he watched as the younger man dropped the near constant air of unquestionable authority that surrounded him, "I can see your doubts about my intentions beginning to grow."

John frowned, quickly looking away as a wave of shame swept through him at being so blatantly obvious, "Sorry."

However, to his surprise, Jim laughed, "Don't be. It would be extremely foolish to just up and trust me."

He paused and as John looked into his face, really looked, he was startled to see the briefest glimpses at a vulnerability he didn't know the man possessed, "I'm not a good man, John. Not by a long shot, but I'm not here to deceive you."

Moriarty sighed, "I could have you or Sherlock killed at any given moment. Something that I admit to considering in the past. I know exactly where Mycroft Holmes is nearly every given moment of the day and, if I wanted, I could wipe him off the map too. But I don't. Because I need him. Without the light, darkness has no place in this world."

With a serious look, Jim directed his all his attention to looking John directly in the eyes, "I'm here because I'm interested. In you. Not Sherlock or the game, John. You."

It shouldn't have put him at ease, it really shouldn't but it did. John believed him and for the moment, the blonde sat completely speechless, almost wanting to open up as well but the minute Jim finished his statement, the vulnerability he possessed disappeared behind a playful smirk that only met his eyes half-way, "No need to be embarrassed Johnny-boy, I know just how persuasive I can be."

He threw the doctor a wink, "So," He snatched a handful of popcorn, "What're we watchin' Johnny?"

With careful consideration and a good amount of previous planning, John chose  _The Dark Knight_. He'd been wanting to see it for ages and it was action packed with enough destruction to keep the criminal at his side occupied. That, and after years of critically acclaimed reviews on Heath Ledger's performance, he couldn't wait to see the actors portrayal of the Joker.

Even being excited to see the movie, John was equally interested in how Jim would react and, to his surprise, the Irishman was completely absorbed in the film within the first thirty minutes.

Easily won comfort surrounded the two men in a blanket of security, blocking out the entirety of the world as they both continued to enjoy the show but as more time passed, John found himself less distracted by the movie than he was by the dark haired genius. Sometime during the first hour or so, the younger man had shifted positions, taking it upon himself to curl up against John's side without hesitation or doubt and though the blonde wasn't complaining in any way, shape or form, he couldn't concentrate.

Not when Jim's body was so close to his own.

John could feel every breath the other man took, see the way his chest rose and fell with every captured burst of oxygen and it was captivating. Covertly watching somebody breathe shouldn't have been entertaining, it shouldn't have been worth noticing at all but to see the other man so calm and contained, so normal, was beyond interesting.

In the moment, he wasn't the criminal mastermind or the most powerful man in Britain or anything remotely close. He was just a guy named Jim, sitting with John in 221B Baker Street, watching a movie.

As that thought crossed the doctor's mind, Michael Caine's voice caught his attention, bringing the blonde's eyes back to the screen as he watched the man portraying Alfred Pennyworth address Bruce Wayne, "Some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned, or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn."

John immediately felt the criminal's breath catch in his throat and as the older man glanced down into the unknowing face of his once-enemy, he realized just how close that statement would've hit home for the other man. That one little summarized description that encompassed all Moriarty was and in the face of that ideal, John felt his mouth go dry.

"Sometimes the world deserves to burn."

The softly spoken statement froze the blood in John's veins, making his heart clench in desire and as he glanced down into the Irishman's surprisingly blank features he knew without a doubt that his response would alter things between them, that it was an olive branch being extended.

And really, to a man who struggled with the idea of acceptance himself, John could see glimpses of the reasoning behind it, as well as the need to be understood.

But did he understand? That was the real question.

John slid down the couch a bit, aligning himself closer to the other man's personal space before considering his response. While it was true that John occasionally thought about people getting what they deserved, he'd never stopped to consider what it'd be like for the life on their planet to burn. Even as he silently considered it, John found himself more focused on the idea of fire itself than by the idea of the masses.

Before he could filter the thought, John spoke, "Maybe if people were a bit more like fire then you wouldn't need to make humanity burn in the first place," He paused, his thoughts trailing off as John realized that he'd spoken out loud.

Jim was quiet, his voice low in a way that made the blonde's stomach knot, "And why is that, pet?"

Dark blue eyes glanced down into the other's upturned face, watching the subtle flickers of curiosity within Jim's own gaze, "Because it'd be burning bright all on its own."

The criminal snorted, leaning back against John with a sort of disconnected laziness that left the doctor feeling as though Moriarty had moved further away rather than closer and in an attempt to make himself heard, John let his thoughts flow freely, "When I was in Uni, the biology professors talked a lot about the definition of life."

Jim looked back, clearly more interested than he'd been a few seconds ago and John took it as his cue to continue, "All living creatures have certain things in common."

John ticked them off on his fingers, "They need to eat, need to breathe and reproduce and grow."

The blonde looked back down at his companion, "If you think about it, by that definition, fire is vibrantly alive."

Secure in his knowledge that he had Jim's full attention, John allowed himself to relax against the familiar cushions of the couch, content in the feeling of the Irishman's body against his own as the older man let his thoughts spill free, "It eats everything that gets in its way, everything from wood to plastic to flesh and excrets everything left behind as ash. It breathes, gulping down air like any human would, taking in oxygen and emitting carbon."

"It grows, spreading out, and as it spreads, it creates new fires to carry on its legacy." John's voice hardened, "It drinks gasoline and excretes cinders. Fights for territory. It loves and it hates."

A small bubble of silence lingered between them as the ex army surgeon paused for a moment of thoughtful consideration, "Sometimes when I watch people trudging through their daily routines, I think that fire is more alive than we are – brighter, hotter, more sure of itself and where it wants to go. Fire doesn't settle; fire doesn't tolerate; fire doesn't 'get by.' Fire does. Fire is."

As he finished, John quieted, directing his attention to the film without really ever seeing it before, without any warning or expectation, Jim was upon him, capturing the blonde's mouth in an unrelenting kiss.

It was hot and demanding, an all encompassing burst of passion that threatened to swallow them both whole as Jim dominated the doctor's mouth, nipping impatiently at his lips, gripping the short blonde strands of the other man's hair tightly in his fist. And John was happy to go along, pleased with the submissive nature of his role in their coupling as he moaned into the Irishman's mouth, parting his lips to grant the younger man access.

Moriarty's tongue immediately sought John's, batting against the slick muscle in a fleeting move designed to tease before the doctor captured it, sucking the dark haired criminal's tongue wantonly as he moved beneath the smaller man's body. It was unmistakable, a sign of both need and consent that Jim caught onto immediately.

Dexterous fingers gripped the fabric just below John's collar as Moriarty pulled away, his features darkened with a serious tone that make the doctor want to whimper, "I don't share, Johnny-boy and if we continue I won't stop. This is your last chance to say no."

John thought about saying no, about all the reasons it would be more appropriate to push the Irishman away and pretend that it never happened but he couldn't. The flame was just too tempting, to difficult to ignore and the blonde couldn't resist the opportunity to lap at the darkness that was Moriarty, even if it made for more problems later.

In a burst of lust fueled aggression, John arched up, pressing hot open mouthed kisses to Jim's throat in response to the other man's question.

While Jim certainly appreciated the gesture, if his thundering pulse was anything to go on, Moriarty slid his hand up, wrapping his fingers around John's throat before pushing him back down against the couch in a display of unwavering dominance. Dark eyes stared into the doctor's flushed face, taking in the lovely sight with a smirk.

Jim dipped his head, his lips pausing right above John's, his warm breath ghosting across the blonde's mouth, "Where's the nearest bed?"

Momentary confusion echoed within John's conscious as he drew himself back from the anticipation, backtracking and trying to focus on the Irishman's question, "My room is upstairs."

Moriarty tsked, giving the older man's throat a slight squeeze, "That's not what I asked, pet."

The calmly uttered statement had John's pulse racing, his heart frantic below his breast and, to his shame, it took every scrap of will the doctor possessed not to stutter, "Sherlock's room."

In a move that was entirely to graceful, Jim Moriarty was standing, leaving John cold from the sudden absence before the good doctor could catch up, his eyes quickly falling to the form of his soon to be lover.

It was obvious the darker haired man was aroused. His cheeks were slightly flushed, pupils expanded in a psychological response that couldn't be masked, not to mention his very obvious erection behind the material of his, no doubt, expensive trousers but even then, he appeared completely in control. Jim's features were set, calm and unyielding as he stared down at John. It was almost eerie, the sheer composure that John saw there in the other man's stance. Despite their near cuddling and the sudden snog, there wasn't a single wrinkle in the criminals trousers, nor the grey button up jacket adorning his figure. Everything about the man was pressed and perfect, and though John should've felt embarrassed by his undone state, he couldn't find it in himself to be entirely bothered.

"Stand up."

Moriarty's rich and unwavering tone made the blonde want to shiver as he stood from his position on the couch, his fists clenching as he tried not to fidget in the face of his growing nervousness. Unfathomable eyes dragged shamelessly along John's body as Moriarty regarded him, slowly circling the blonde in a way that made John distinctly feel like prey in the eyes of the hunter.

Moriarty paused in front of him before reaching out to tug at the material of John's oatmeal jumper, "This has got to go, pet."

In a moment of clarity, John found his arousal quickly doused in a sharp wave of self-consciousness. He wasn't ashamed of his scar in any way. It was a symbol, a badge dictating just how far he was willing to go for Queen and Country but after two separate rounds of infection the mark was anything but pretty to look at.

It was a concave starburst of spidery white lines that went through and through.

John hesitated, glancing down at his torso with an apprehensive look, "Moriarty -"

"It's Jim."

Surprised at being cut off, John looked back up into the face of the consulting criminal, "Excuse me?"

The Irishman didn't respond right away, taking the time instead to slowly unbutton his blazer, stepping away to lay it casually over the back of John's chair before returning his gaze to the blonde's face, "Only my clients and my enemies call me Moriarty. You will refer to me as either Jim, James or Sir from now on."

There was no room for error in his tone and John immediately felt his mouth go dry, his weakened arousal coming back full force as Jim stepped back in front of him, "Now, there's no need to be shy, Johnny-boy. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

Under the intense scrutiny, John almost felt as if he was back in the deserts under the Afghan sun, breathing in the hot air as he wetted his lips, "How?"

In a move that seemed entirely below the other man's stature, Moriarty snorted, "Please. I threw away thirty million quid just to get you and Sherlock to come out and play. If I couldn't get my hands on one little military file I'd be a horrible consultant. Nobody would ever ask me to fix their problems, Johnny."

John took a deep breath, physically strengthening his resolve before pulling the jumper up over his head and casting it aside with little thought of where it might land. His line of sight remained straight forward, eyes moving only to track the man circling him. The blonde's stance was stoic, more similar to his days as a soldier than he could recall ever being since his return to London, bar the trip to Baskerville but Moriarty didn't seem to mind. In fact, the younger man seemed to almost relish in John's stilled silence, in the submission of his form as he awaited orders.

Cool air rushed over John's heated flesh and the blonde doctor couldn't help the small shiver that raced down his spine, a scattered ghost of goosebumps peppering his golden skin.

"What a sight." Jim dragged his fingertips with fleeting laziness along John's body, skimming from the soldier's flanks up to his collarbones and down to the dip of his spine, "You'll just stand here, won't you? Waiting."

The blonde clenched his jaw, fully expecting the man to make a remark about how well Sherlock had him trained or something another but John found himself completely floored when the other man came up flush behind him. Jim pressed his torso snugly against the length of the doctor's back as his hands coming to rest against the front of John's hips in a possessive display of ownership. The criminal's fingers laid wide and splayed along John's bare flesh, the tips of his fingers sliding effortlessly under the waistband of the blonde's trousers as he pulled him close, lips mere centimeters from John's ear, "You look exquisite in the way that you wait."

Taunting fingers slipped up along John's torso, nearly taking the blonde's breath away in the path of those long fingers as they trailed over the padded planes of his abdomen, "I've seen military men hardened by multiple tours across various wars piss themselves in my very presence, but not you."

Moriarty's dexterous fingers brushed one of the older man's nipples, circling it as the warmth of the criminal's breath danced along the outer shell of John's ear, "Not John Watson."

The army doctor's control nearly crumbled as Jim chuckled darkly in his ear, the muscles in his legs threatening to quiver but John was quickly saved from embarrassment when the Irishman circled back to his front with a smirk.  
Bottomless eyes stared unflinching into the depths of John's impossibly blue eyes as Jim's spidery fingers found the soldier's scar with very little effort. The pads of his fingers were gentle, despite the clear tensing of muscles below them as the dark haired man traced the web of damaged tissue by touch alone, his attention focused entirely on the sandy blonde haired doctor.

Momentary silence lingered between the two men as Jim continued his exploration, his fingers traveling further up the other man's collar before eventually finding undamaged flesh but his touch didn't still.

Lengthy digits wrapped around the back of John's neck, pulling them chest to chest as the criminal's lips caressed the sensitive skin just below his ear, "I could have that man killed if you wished," Jim's free hand slid under the doctor's arm to glide across the scar's echo on the back of his shoulder blade, "The man who shot you."

In the span of a single second, John could've sworn he felt his heart stop beating, his lungs refusing to operate as wave after wave of molten hot arousal poured through his very veins, his pupils blowing impossibly wide at the Irishman's words.

John didn't consider himself incredibly vengeful, especially not towards the actions of those performing under the guise of war, but to hear James Moriarty speak so casually of killing for him left John bloodthirsty and aroused like nothing else. Never had he felt lust like this, not towards anyone or anything in his entire life and suddenly the blonde's control snapped.

Insistent fingers grabbed the genius' inky black hair, tugging his head back before dragging the consultant into a bruising kiss. John knew who among them would win in a battle of dominance, he knew when to kneel and when to stand but in the face of Jim's monstrous reality, he couldn't stop from biting harshly at the other man's lips, from grabbing the slender hips of his soon to be lover and pulling them impossibly close, growled the criminal's name as Jim responded.

Slim fingers grasped the waistband of John's trousers, sharply pulling him forwards as James ground his erection against John's thigh, making them both gasp.

He knew it was wrong, John knew it was absolutely wrong but without prompt or consideration he grabbed Moriarty's collar, tugging him forward as John carefully maneuvered his way backward through the kitchen and down the hall towards Sherlock's bedroom. Jim never once stopped kissing him, his lips passionate and unrelenting against John's as he slammed the older man into the door, both of them fumbling with the knob, nearly falling through the frame as they finally got it open.

Harsh kisses and grasping touches flowed unabashed between them as the two tumbled onto the unfamiliar bed, each grabbing shamelessly for the other before, in a move that John never saw coming, the Irishman flipped the blonde doctor onto his stomach before straddling John's hips.

Possessive hands ran up the older man's sides as Jim leaned over his naked back, pressing a hot open mouthed kiss to the side of John's throat before the criminal grabbed a fist full of his hair, tugging the blonde's head back just enough to prove a point, his voice low and demanding, "Daddy appreciates your enthusiasm, pet, but don't think about making disobedience a habit."

John groaned, shifting his aching arousal against the sheets at the sound of Jim's dark velvet tone, "Yes, Sir."

A soft chuckle met the blonde's ear before the criminal tsked at his actions, "Now, now, we'll have none of that."

Moriarty nipped and sucked fleetingly at the high strung doctor's neck, teasing him shamelessly before snaking back down his lover's body. Warm fingers glided along John's flank, hot and insistent as the Irishman dipped his head, dragging his lips torturously down the length of John's spine as the younger man gripped the doctor's hips, hiking them up with a jerk.

The position left the blonde feeling more than a bit vulnerable, up on his knees, legs spread with his cheek buried in the duvet but Jim ran his palm knowingly along the older man's shoulders, reassuring him with a calm and soothing touch, "Be still."

Jim allowed his touch to linger a moment longer before he stepped away, humming thoughtfully as he looked around for something. If John were any less aroused he might've been worried that the world's only Consulting Criminal was rooting around his best friend's bedroom, finding god knows what but in his current frame of mind John couldn't be arsed to care. His mind was warm, calm and blissful as he waited patiently for the younger man to return.

Jim's voice sounded from the opposite end of the bed, "So unwavering in your ability to follow orders. Loyal as they come, aren't you John?"

Despite not being able to see, John could sense the gaze of his lover against the taunt muscles of his back, a small shiver running down his spine as Jim spoke, "You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you darling? Anything at all and you wouldn't even fight me."

Glassy eyed and beyond aroused, John didn't respond, content merely to grip the bedsheets in his fists and wait for whatever the other man had in store.

It must've been the right response because the next time Jim spoke, the doctor could very nearly hear the pleased smirk in his tone, "Lets test that theory shall we, my dear?"

Muscles tense with anticipation jumped at the first cool touch of the alien material against his heated flesh. Calm and incessant, Jim dragged the foreign object patiently along the length of the doctors body before, with an absolutely filthy groan of recognition from John, he paused.

The leather tip of the crop's tongue felt smooth and achingly familiar against John's skin and all he wanted to do was squirm, to writhe and make his desire known before the eyes of his lover, the blonde's chest heaving with anticipation.

But Jim was nothing if not perceptive, and at the first sign of John's positive response, he flashed a victorious grinned unseen by the other, "Not your first time, I take it." John shook his head, his body trembling beneath the stilled leather, "Good. Then I won't have to be gentle with you."

John moaned wantonly at the other man's words, gripping the sheets tighter in preparation as the crop's touch left his skin, "Please."

Poised and ready to strike, Jim stood above his lover, crop raised high, taking in the subtle way John moved, the way his muscles danced beneath the surface of his skin, the drawn out anticipation making him all the more sensitive before, without warning, Jim brought down the crop with a sharp finality.

The sound of leather meeting flesh echoed around the room, as did John's cry of surprise but before he could prepare for the next strike, Jim was already rising the leather, raining rapidly moderate blows of the crop across John's shoulders. Not enough to hurt, just yet, but warming and sensitizing the skin.

It was gorgeous, the way John's muscles clenched and released in response to his touches, to the swings of his instrument and without even having touched himself, Jim could feel satisfaction weaving itself through his body.

With a confident stance, Moriarty rained down blows four five and six in rapid succession, pausing only long enough to make sure that the additional strength behind his force wasn't bothering the doctor. However, to his surprise, John wasn't bothered in the least. In fact, with the way he was arching and gasping, one would even think that it wasn't nearly enough.

A coy smile curled the criminal's lips, lighting his eyes as he dragged the warmed leather along the pinkened flesh of John's back, watching with undisguised pleasure as the blonde panted harshly.

The crop once again came down, perhaps a bit harsher this time, but unlike the previous strokes, John finally groaned in defeat, whimpering as he tried to remember how to speak before finally finding the will to do so, "Jim."

Momentarily paused by the overly husky and desperate tone of his love, Jim paused, the leather of the crop resting along the dip in John's spine "Hmm?"

"It hurts."

A flicker of disappointment echoed within the dark haired Irishman at the older man's statement, a small frown overtaking his previous smirk, "What hurts?"

Jim expected his lover to complain about his back and the still tingling burn of where the crop met his flesh but as John turned to face him, his pupils blown impossibly wide, glassy with undeniable need, Moriarty was taken aback by John's whimpered words, "My cock."

Twin brows rose in a look of momentary confusion before the Irishman stepped forward, his gaze darting between John's legs to capture the sight of the blonde's impressive cock straining hard and desperate against the zip of his trousers.

Renewed desire shot through the darker haired man at the sight. Knowing how uncomfortable it must have been was thrilling in its own right, to an extent, but the knowledge that John ignored it as long as he could to please the younger man was something else entirely. It was intoxicating on a certain level, that amount of given power over something so simple as comfort.

Already dark eyes turned impossibly black as Jim approached the submissive ex army doctor, laying the crop carefully beside the blonde, "Please forgive my forgetful nature, pet."

John snorted at the absurdity of that statement only for the sound to catch in his throat as the Irishman's clever fingers reached around to undo his button and pull down his zip before grabbing harshly at John's trousers, working them over his hips and down his legs despite the awkward positioning. A sharp hiss came from the blonde's lips as his aching erection was finally freed, the tip flushed and wet with the proof of his arousal.

Jim hummed in approval, scooping up the momentarily discarded toy in a graceful move John nearly missed, "My, my, what a gorgeous cock you have."

John moaned at the desire laced tones of Jim's smooth baritone voice, his legs unconsciously shifting, widening his stance just a bit to the younger man's delight.

The criminal stepped back and raised the crop, his gaze firmly settled on John as he ran the leather tongue along the bottom of the blonde's shaft, watching as his lover's hips bucked forward in response, "Look at you, pet. So desperate for me. Absolutely gorgeous."

Pleasure wracked the doctor's overstimulated nerves, and he could do nothing but moan, gasping out the sounds of his approval as Jim continued to tease him, tracing fleeting leather touches up and down the length of his cock. It was hard enough trying to stay to still and accepting while the Irishman took control but John loved it, loved the way it made his blood sing with desire and the blonde soldier nearly sobbed with relief when Moriarty cast away the riding crop and grasped his arse in both hands, squeezing the captured flesh possessively as he laid a kiss on the bottom of John's back.

The warmth of the genius' breath washed over the doctor's skin as Jim parted his globes, one of his fingertips gently brushing across John's entrance, "I'm going to absolutely wreck you, John." To his dismay, the firm touch was momentarily removed and John nearly lept out of his own skin as it returned, slicked with what he assumed was saliva, "I'm going to take my time opening you up, getting you ready for my cock and then I'm going to fuck you hard and fast until you can't think of anything other than me."

The calm and controlled confidence of the criminal's words left John keening desperately into the sheets, his opening fluttering under his lover's touch, "God - yeah, fuck Jim."

A pleased smirk touched the younger man's lips at the sound of his name coming from the blonde's mouth. He ran a soothing palm up his companion's spine. Stepping away from his prize, Jim quickly began searched around for lubricant, a pleased hum lingering on his lips as he eventually found some hidden away in the bottom of Sherlock's closet.

Victory etched across his features, Moriarty returned, flicking open the cap and drizzling the cool liquid over the tips of his fingers. Dropping the bottle back on the duvet, Jim crawled up behind John, murmuring words of warning as he glided the slicked digits along the doctor's entrance, pulling a sharp cry from the older man as he pushed his finger into the first knuckle.

As Jim allowed his lover a moment to adjust, waiting patiently as the muscles surrounding the intrusion fluttered, he considered all the times he'd done this in the past. Normally he didn't care for the comfort of those he took to his bed. The prep was usually rough and perhaps not as thorough as it should've been, but as Moriarty slowly began pumping his finger in and out of John's body, listening to the whimpers and whines of the man below him, he was partially glad he hadn't taken that route. While Jim adored rough sex as much as the next criminal mastermind, there was something utterly satisfying about this form of gentle torture, the teasing that left his companion breathless and absolutely desperate.

With a lazy and nearly absent minded attitude, Jim searched for the blonde's prostate, his free hand coming around to wrap loosely around John's heavy cock as he slowly worked in a second finger. The Irishman was quickly met with a hot and needy moan as he casually stroked the other's cock, his fingers sliding smoothly over his lover's rigid flesh as he gently scissored him open.

After Jim felt that he'd been sufficiently teased, he crooked his fingers, grinning as the blonde's muscles immediately clenched down around him, an unmistakable cry echoing through the room, "There! Please Jim, right there!"

The criminal smirked, "Look at how greedy you are, pet. Taking both of my fingers so easily. What a little tart you are, John Watson. Are you ready for another?"

John shook his head, gripping the sheets as he shamelessly drove his hips back against Moriarty's fingers, groaning at the sensation, "Give me your cock, Jim. I can't wait anymore, I need it."

Raging lust darkened the younger man's eyes, the pupil nearly eclipsing the impossibly deep rings of his irises as Jim pulled his fingers free with a growl. John whimpered, vocally protesting the loss as he pushed his hips back wantonly, a full body shiver going through him at the unmistakable sound of Jim lowering his zip.

In truth, John hadn't even realized that the younger man hadn't shed his clothes already, but as the Irishman slid up behind him, the blonde could feel the ghostly brushes of Jim's trousers against the back of his thighs. Confusion clouded his thoughts before he was struck with a sudden realization. Heat rushed straight down to John's groin, making the doctor's cock throb as he realized, with a very vocal moan, that the consulting criminal was going to fuck him fully clothed.

"That's right, darling." A soft moan fell between them as Moriarty applied a liberal amount of extra lube to the blonde's entrance before tossing the bottle to the floor, smearing the rest over the length of his shaft.

Merciless fingers gripped the older man's hips, the dark haired consultant's fingers still slick with lube as he slid his cock effortlessly between the globes of John's arse, thrusting the column of his shaft along John's stretched rim, "Daddy is going to fuck you so hard pet, all you have to do is beg for it."

A low moan of desperation echoed within John's throat as he shoved his hips back murmuring the criminal's name, refusing to do as he was told but Jim was having none of it.

With a hiss the criminal grasped the back of his lover's neck, squeezing harshly as he positioned the tip of his member against John's opening, "You will beg me to fuck you or I will walk away right now, Johnny-boy. Your choice."

John's chest heaved as he tried to breathe, his brain so absolutely fogged over with lust and desire that he could barely think. Pale lids fluttered down over glassy blue eyes as John pushed himself fully up onto his hands and knees, his lips parting as he moaned the criminal's name with a frenzied need that he didn't even know he possessed.

"Fuck Jim -" John dropped his head, rolling his hips back, "Please fuck me, give it to me hard and fast and whatever other way you want. Whatever you want Jim, it's yours just fuck me!"

Apparently satisfied by the blonde's words, Jim gripped his lover's hips tightly, holding him still while he thrust forward, burying his length into John's velvet heat with a single thrust.

Tight muscles squeezed the Irishman's length, nearly bringing him to the brink as John's walls fluttered around his member, getting used to the size of his shaft. Jim probably should have opened opened him up more, forcing the blonde to wait until the got a third finger into him but he'd just sounded so needy and wanton. Jim wasn't a patient man by nature and combined with his own prolonged desire, he simply couldn't wait.

However, his worries were unfounded.

Beneath him, John was gripping the duvet in a death hold, panting for breath as the blissful burn of being stretched shot through him one throb at a time. It wasn't at all how he remembered it, the exquisite feeling of being completely and utterly full. This was like nothing he'd ever experienced and though John knew his body wasn't entirely relaxed, he couldn't wait anymore.

John released the duvet, quickly switching to Sherlock's headboard, his voice nearly cracking with need as he rolled his hips back, "Move, Jim."

Twin sets of fingers squeezed the flesh of John's hips in understanding before Moriarty drew his hips back, earning a long and drawn out groan from the blonde doctor. It was absolutely perfect, the slow and agonizingly torturous slide of his lover's cock as it slid from his body. John should've been more concerned about that fact that Jim wasn't wearing a condom and that he was exposing himself to the risk of a sexually transmitted disease but all the blonde could think about was how the veins of his lover's cock felt against his sensitive rim, about the brush of Jim's expensive trousers against the back of his legs.

Once he was sure John was alright, the dark haired genius snapped his hips forward, starting out with a calm and lazy pace. It was maddening for John, the way Jim remained unhurried and in control. The doctor was well aware of the unspoken power play, but even that drove his pleasure higher. It was utterly captivating to be taken apart in such a way, to have a man like Moriarty above him, driving in to his body as he submitted.

Moriarty's dark voice rumbled behind him as the criminal's heated palms released the blonde's hips, smoothly skating up his sides, "So good for me, John. You're such a good boy. So patient."

John shivered at the praise but said nothing waiting for the other to continue only to be surprised when his lover drove into him hard, pulling a cry from the blonde's lips, "I know you're gagging for it, Johnny-boy. That you want me to pound you senseless, don't you pet?"

The blonde nodded quickly, his response sitting heavily on his tongue before Jim became impatient, snapping his hips forward to graze John's prostate with a well aimed thrust, "Don't you?"

John gasped as pleasure exploded across his nerves, his hips unconsciously driving back more firmly against the cradle of Jim's pelvis, "Christ, yes! I need it, just - fuck,"

The blonde dropped his head, panting unabashed as Jim quickly picked up the pace, but the Irishman didn't relent, "Just what, pet?"

White fingers released their hold on the sturdy wood frame to slide up a bit, giving the doctor better leverage as he shamelessly rocked back into the criminal's deep thrusts, his brain barely able to process the other man's words, "Fuck, Jim - just give it to me. Fuck me harder, James!"

The genius' eyes darkened exponentially at the sound of his full name and, without warning, he made a grab for John. Reaching out, the consultant wrapped his lengthy fingers around the doctor's throat, pulling the older man back against his chest with a firm grasp before picking up the pace. Jim no longer cared about teasing and taunting John towards the edge of his orgasm, he was hungry to take his pleasure and from the sounds spilling from his lover's mouth, Jim was sure the blonde didn't mind.

His muscles were tense, the inner walls of his body gripping and releasing around the Irishman's cock as he drove deeper and harder into his soldier with every stroke. John scrambled for purchase, settling with reaching back to grab the younger man's neck as he desperately tried to hold on, gasping and moaning Jim's praises as the he angled his hips just a bit higher, quickly finding the doctor's sweet spot with startling accuracy.

Jim wrapped a possessive arm across the older man's torso, growling his pleasure into the hot cradle of John's neck as he forced himself to go faster, the doctor's moans of pleasure quickly turning into high pitched keens of over stimulation. It was intense, the punishing pace combined with the criminal's near constant abuse towards his prostate and John felt as though he would come apart at any second.

His erection was painfully flushed, absolutely begging to be too touched and John knew without a doubt that a single stroke would have him exploding in the younger man's fist, "James!"

Blunt fingernails dug into the sensitive flesh of Jim's neck, small crescent shaped moons embedding themselves in a neat line starting just below the Irishman's hairline, "I need to - Christ, Jim I need it, I need to -"

John's plea cut off with a desire laced cry as Jim nipped the side of his neck in warning, redoubling his efforts with a grunt, pounding up into the doctor without pause, "Tell Daddy what you need, pet."

The genius' voice was lower than John had ever heard, and the blonde doctor was nearly positive that his lover was just as close to losing it as he was, "I need to come! Fuck, Daddy, I need to come!"

At the lust driven title, Jim hissed into the blonde's ear before releasing his lover's torso. Merciless fingers immediately made a grab for John's throat, squeezing harshly at the same moment as Moriarty released his the death grip on John's hip, his free hand grasping the older man's impossibly hard cock, "Then do it, come for me, John."

Overwhelming arousal coursed through the older man's veins. His lover's fingers held his throat just tight enough to make breathing slightly difficult, his mind becoming fuzzy and hyper-aware all at once as the mind-numbing pleasure of Jim's hand on his member assaulted him all at once.

Moriarty gave John's throat a sharp squeeze, cutting off his airflow just a little more as he felt his lover's walls fluttering around his cock as he drove himself deeper into body below, "How does it feel, John, to be fucked by a killer?"

It was to much, the insistent hand on his cock, the warm flush of warm breath over his neck as Jim spoke, the dark words spilling from the Irishman's lips. John barely managed to choke out a warning before he was coming all over the criminal's palm, his hips alternating between driving forcefully into Jim's fist and rocking back against the relentless cock sliding in and out of his body. Breathless cries passed through the blonde's lips as he finally pushed through the highest crest of his pleasure before the younger man released his throat.

Jim watched with rapt attention as the man below him seemed to come apart at the seams a near second time with that first gulp of fresh air and as the consultant's near black eyes took in the sight of John bucking and gasping against him in the throes of passion, Jim too found himself at the brink.

Moriarty's come slicked hand released the blonde's over sensitive cock with an easy slide only to latch back on to his lover's hips as the criminal lost all semblance of rhythm or control. Pleasured growls spilled from the Irishman's lips as he drove himself in and out of John with reckless abandon before, with clenched teeth, he felt the familiar draw of his balls as he finally reached his breaking point.

It was hot and all encompassing as the tension finally broke, leaving Jim to grip his lover's hips like a lifeline as he buried himself as deeply in the willing body below him as possible. Muscles quivered under exertion as the dark haired man held himself nearly still, his release flooded into the blonde's passage in thick spurts.

Between the two of them it was almost like there wasn't a single breath of oxygen in the room, both of their chests rising and falling with panting gasps as they slipped effortlessly into the warm embrace of a well earned afterglow. Jim slid his softening cock from the blonde's body, watching with undisguised pride as John released the headboard, flopping gracelessly onto his side with a satisfied groan. Perspiration clung to golden skin and Jim watched with a certain amount of interest as drops of sweat rolled across his lover's back before finally being absorbed into the cotton sheets.

Though uncharacteristic, Jim lingered for a moment longer, watching John's breathing finally being to slow as he caught his breath before the genius rose, wandering off in search of a clean flannel.

John, for his part, couldn't be arsed to care what the other man did. He couldn't remember the last time he had an orgasm that intense, or the last time sex with anybody else was that satisfying. John remained lost in his blissed out mindset, barely acknowledging the younger man as he returned to wipe him down with more care than was strictly necessary.

In the lingering subspace of his mind, John just smiled, curling up beside his lover as Jim sat on the bed with his back against the headboard. It was quiet, comforting as the Irishman carded his fingers through the soft blonde strands of John's hair and he couldn't help but to rub his cheek against Jim's thigh, not caring a bit if it made him seem like an overgrown dog or not.

Jim hummed thoughtfully, dragging his freshly washed fingers across John's cheek with a chuckle, "Sure hope Sherly isn't too mad about the bed, pet."

Confusion clouded the blonde's pleasant thoughts at the mention of his flatmate. John pried his eyes open, glancing up towards Jim's grinning face before catching sight of the Periodic Table poster tacked to the wall opposite of them. Raw panic gripped the doctor's heart like a vice as he sat up in a flurry of uncoordinated limbs all trying to move at once.

John looked around wildly, his heart hammering with true horror as more of Sherlock's belongings came into view. With the knowledge that he'd just had sex in the bed of most observant man in the world John felt his blissed mindset immediately melt away, quickly being overcome with an intense desire to flee as far and fast as possible. The genius was going to kill him, Sherlock was going to come home and kill him in every brutal way possible and nobody would ever find his body.

John sprung from the rapidly cooling bed, clamping his fingers down around the consulting criminal's wrist and dragging him from the bed, hauling his form out into the living room with wide eyes filled with terror. Without pausing to think about disrespect or even who he was man-handling, John shoved the dark haired man towards the couch and rushed back towards Sherlock's room, offering feeble prayers and bargains with any higher power that cared to listen as he stripped all the bedding from the brunette's bed, hauling it to the washing machine.

Desperate eyes darted critically around the room, taking in the details and trying to remember where everything was supposed to be. Everything was just a bit out of place from the passion ensnared couple bumping recklessly into them in their haste to find a bed. Unabashed disrepair consumed the older man as he caught sight of the lube and the abandoned riding crop, knowing for sure that he wouldn't be able to put them back without Sherlock finding out.

 _Jim._  Jim would know where they came from.

Hope flared within the blonde's chest as he made his way back to the living room only to be crushed without mercy as he found himself alone. The living room was empty empty, the door shut and locked as if nobody had ever been there to begin with.

The soft ping of an electronic alert sounded in the silence, making John grumble as he hunted down the elusive burner phone. With a grunt, John finally located the device, pulling up the message threads only to snort in unsurprised amusement.

 _Would've loved to stay and help you clean up, but duty calls. You'll be hearing from me soon, pet. -JM xo_  
  
John wasn't surprised in the least, not knowing who Jim was and, despite knowing that he was in a world of trouble the second Sherlock returned, he couldn't wipe the smile from his face. A second ping pulled John from his fond thoughts.

_P.s. Loved our date(; xoxo_

Laughter burst from the doctors chest, an entertained smirk capturing his features completely as he tossed the phone aside, preparing to try and preserve as much of his dignity as he could before his genius flatmate returned.

* * *

Days passed with nothing of the incident being said between the two flatmates, much to the blonde's relief, but as the fifth day rolled around, John knew his luck had finally run out.

Sitting in his favorite chair, working on the crossword puzzle, John came to this conclusion as he caught the tell-tale sound of Mycroft's signature umbrella tapping each of the stairs. His footsteps were calm, furnished as they always were but with each one John could feel his heart pick up pace, thundering just behind his breast.

The doctor wanted to believe that the British Government was just dropping in to check on Sherlock, that perhaps he had a case of national importance that he'd come to bully Sherlock into taking but the moment John caught sight of the ginger man man standing in the door frame, he knew that all was wishful thinking.

Mycroft was there because of James Moriarty and it didn't take a genius like the Holmes brothers to figure that out.

John stared at his crossword, not bothering to look up from the puzzle as he addressed the British official, "The answer is no."

Through his peripherals, John could see the look of distaste crossing the older Holmes features, "I beg your pardon?"

John sighed scribbled in one of the answers before folding the paper, laying it on the arm of his chair.

With the briefest glances towards Sherlock, John turned his attention towards Mycroft, his bravo more puffed up than anything, "No I don't know where he is, no I'm not going to spy on him, no I'm not aware of any threats to national security, no I don't know what he's planning, no it hasn't been an ongoing thing. Take your pick really."

Through the corner of his eye John caught Sherlock smirking down at his microscope as he fiddled with the knobs, his sides shaking the slightest bit with well concealed laughter and the doctor couldn't help but to feel lighter about the entire situation.

Mycroft didn't appear stunned by the statement. Instead he frowned at the blonde army doctor, looking as though he'd just taken a bite of something distasteful, "While I'm anything but supportive of this development, that's not why I'm here."

John opened his mouth to respond only for Sherlock to steal his voice, pulling both men's attention towards the brunette's statue-like stance in front of his microscope, "Get on with it Mycroft. I can't focus on my experiments while all the objects in the flat try to decide whether or not they should begin orbiting you."

John barely contained the laughter threatening to burst from between his thinned lips as Sherlock taunted his older brother. John wasn't usually a big fan of scathing comments but he knew it was all done in good fun and Mycroft was always kind of a prick. No matter how much he tried to deny it, John couldn't deny being pleased by Sherlock's attempts to knock him down a peg or two.

"While your humor is always appreciated, brother mine, I merely stopped by to deliver the good news."

Mycroft pulled a file from his jacket, "I received a notification this morning that James Moriarty cut all affiliations with major terrorist organizations." Mycroft paused, giving the two flatmates a moment to process the information before continuing, "In fact, I was informed that Mr. Moriarty agreed to aid in the capture of one or two of them known for their taste in British affairs."

He turned back towards John with a sharp smirk that reminded the blonde more of a shark than a politician, "On behalf of the British Government, I'd like to offer our appreciation."

John scoffed, casting an amused look over towards Sherlock, "If you're offering to knight me you can save it."

The curly haired genius snickered but stayed quiet, his entire focus directed towards whatever interesting occurrence was taking place on the slide. Meanwhile, John basked in the joy of having successfully sassed the British Government, watching as the auburn haired politician swallowed his annoyance.

Sherlock glanced up from his experiment, "If that's all Mycroft, I'm sure you have wars to start somewhere else."

A flash of irritation crossed the older Holmes' features before he collected himself with a cough, turning back towards John, "You have our thanks, Doctor Watson."

With a twirl of his umbrella, Mycroft spared his brother one last look before sweeping from the flat with a collected air of distance, the sound of his footsteps fading before the sound of a closing door echoed up these stairs.

Sherlock lifted his head and looked over at his best friend with an amused smirk, "He can't understand how you outsmarted him."

John snickered, settling back into his chair with a huff, resuming his crossword, "These are not the droids you're looking for."

Confusion sat heavy on the detectives features and John could do nothing but shake his head with undeniable fondness as his pop culture reference went right over the older man's head, "Never mind Sherlock, you'd just delete it anyway."

Sherlock gave a careless shrug before returning to his work, leaving John grinning like a loon before he quickly pulled out the disposable mobile, typing up a message with a growing smile before hitting send with a rush of butterflies.

_Hey Jim, how do you feel about Star Wars? -JW_

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I would like to just add that I didn't come up with the quote about fire being a living thing. That quote is from the lovely Dan Wells(:


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